The Rómentári
by Sigebeorn
Summary: Exiled from her homeland by an unfulfilled prophecy, the daughter of a desert chief finds herself torn between two worlds. In the search for a place to belong, she must reconsider everything she believes to be true... REVIEWS: "I am obsessed!" "IT IS TOO AMAZING" "I am absolutely in love with this story" "I laughed, I cried, I cheered" "Author... you are an absolute babe"
1. The Prophecy

**THE RÓMENTÁRI**

 **Hello, readers. Thank you for clicking. I like you already.**

 **Recognisable characters, places and events belong to Tolkien.**

 **Unrecognisable characters, places and events are a product of my own unparalleled genius.**

 **Rated T for some violence. Rated SPICY for the slow-burn romance that will appear after approximately 49 chapters of characterisation (just kidding, it's only like 17). Rated AWESOME because it is.**

 **Please excuse my excessive lack of modesty; I am truly thrilled that your curiosity drew you here, and I hope that you enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **"He wondered what the man's name was and where he came from; and if he was really evil of heart, or what lies or threats had led him on the long march from his home; and if he would not really rather have stayed there in peace – all in a flash of thought that was quickly driven from his mind."  
— **_**J** **.R.R. Tolkien,** _ **The Two Towers**_

 **1 – THE PROPHECY**

* * *

The red sun set over the desert behind Tchakhura Makhyë as she walked through the camp. She nodded to the old women who each sat outside their _patchu_ , the tent-houses. Each _patchi_ was dome shaped, crafted by stretching animal skins around wooden frames. They were light and easily carried, but also strong, standing the worst of the sandstorms, scorching days and cold nights of the desert.

The camp was quiet, almost eerily so. So many people were gone. Many of the _patchu_ were empty. The children were more wide eyed now, Tchakhura thought, more subdued and wary, never straying too far from their mothers. They had seen too many things for people so young. They laughed as children should, but warily. War had taken that from them. Gondor had.

The Khondyë's _patchi_ was the biggest; it was at the centre of the camp, close to the fire, and that was where Tchakhura was headed now. The Khondyë had called a meeting, and Tchakhura knew very well what they would be discussing. Gondor had once again increased their attacks on the _bamyë_ , and they were far too strong. They could not continue like this and expect to survive.

Tchakhura stopped outside the Khondyë's _patchi_. She could hear voices inside.

" _Khuma_ _Khondyë_ ," she called.

"Enter," came the reply. Tchakhura pulled back the door-flap and went in.

Inside the _patchi_ were three men and a woman seated around a low wooden table, their faces illuminated in the flickering red light of the lamp hung from the roof beams.  
The Khondyë looked up.

" _Khuma_ , daughter."

" _Khuma_ , Vadrë," she replied, sitting down next to Tcharum. He shifted slightly to make room for her nodding in greeting.

"How goes it at the boundaries, sister?" he asked.

"I left them quiet," Tchakhura replied. "Borund's patrol ends now, so he will join us soon."

Tcharum sighed. "The borders might be peaceful now, but they won't be for long. Gondor has been biding their time, but the next attack will come before the full moon, mark my words."

Tchakhura shrugged. "Perhaps they have decided we are no longer a threat," she said, knowing it was not true.

Tcharum snorted. "We haven't _threatened_ Gondor for years, and they know that. They will attack yet again, whatever their reasons; they have proven themselves cruel and spiteful, so why wouldn't they keep hitting us while we're down? But as for us..." He shook his head in frustration. "We must decide on yet another strategy of avoidance."

"Hence the meeting," said Tchakhura, half smiling. She lowered her voice. "Is Vadrë… in a mood?"

Tcharum shook his head, glancing at the Khondyë and speaking just as quietly. "He seemed angry this afternoon, but he's better now. Probably. You should spend more time with him, Tchakhura, I am tired of always being the one bringing him to reason."

"You know I can't, brother," Tchakhura bit out under her breath. "I only wish I could."

They were interrupted when the door-flap was pulled back again, and a tall, broad-shouldered man entered the _patchi_.

 _"Khuma_ _Khondyë_ ," he said. "All's quiet on the boundaries — for now, at least. Am I the last?"

" _Khuma_ , Borund. You are the last," replied the Khondyë. "We will begin our council."

Borund sat next to Viatchund, and everyone settled. The Khondyë was not a tall man, but he was stocky and muscled. Although he was growing older, his hair showed no sign of greying, and his black eyes glared with an intensity that had reduced many crowds to silence over their time.

"We can only assume that Gondor, if they follow their usual patterns, will send another raid within three to four weeks. A course of action must be decided upon." There were murmurs of agreement. The Khondyë continued.

"Our casualties grow every raid," he said. "Many of our _variag_ , our warriors, have been lost in battle. The _bamyë_ is forced to keep on the move by the threat of attack. Considering these, I ask first: what measures would each of you have taken to save the tribe?"

"As you say, every time Gondor attacks we lose more of our people," Viatchund said. "Before this we have survived by relocating, time after time, but we are staving off the inevitable. We are the largest of all the tribes of Khand, and we cannot move fast or far enough to truly outrun the raids. We must try to negotiate again."

Tcharum leaned in and shook his head. "It is useless to try. Four months ago, we sent a party to parley when the attackers arrived. They were shot down by archers and were killed before they had advanced ten yards. The raid before that, the same thing happened. Clearly this path was never open to us."

"Moreover, they do not speak our language," said Borund. "Nor we theirs. Our lands are too far removed and any one of the _bamyë_ who understood the dialect of Gondor is long dead. Negotiation is useless – even if they allowed us to approach them, we couldn't communicate. The only path which I see could remain open to us is to go East, if we could just convince the Kheviag tribe..."

"That way also is closed to us," said Tchakhura. "East are the lands of the Kheviag _bamyë_. Their Khondyë has been clear that he will not have us on his lands. The Kheviag Khondyë does not want his people in danger from Gondor's raids, for he has seen as an example what they have done to us. He fears their wrath, and well he might. The Maruvikh tribe is insulation for the Kheviag; we are a shield, if you like, to weather the blows and keep them safe."

For a moment, there was silence, then Tcharum spoke. "So physically, we are as far East as we can go. We cannot run. We cannot fight. We cannot negotiate. What futures other than execution, or slavery to Gondor are open to us? Clearly they hate us."

All at the table nodded. "It is just the way of things," said the woman, Petakh. "For as long as our fathers' fathers remember, Khand has opposed Gondor. We are allies with the Haradrim too, another enemy of Gondor. Could it be that they fight us just because it is all we have ever known?"

"That's ridiculous," said Borund. "Enemies and alliances are made and unmade all the time, and I cannot believe that is their motive. We are as far from their land as we could be, and we are not in any position to attack. Were we in their position, and they in ours, I would not have us raid again and again a people so helpless just for old times' sake."

"Nor would I. Yet what we would do means nothing," Viatchund argued. "Perhaps they wish to drive us from _our_ land, too. And what Gondor does is not foolish. A soldier does not give his enemies time to recover, then attack anew."

"Yet they will not parley!" Petakh cried, smacking her hand down on the table.

"It matters not! Perhaps it is some twisted Western tradition of revenge. The fact remains that they are thirsty still for the blood of our _bamyë._ Their motives –"

"It is immaterial whether or not we know the motive of Gondor." Tcharum interrupted Viatchund. "We will be attacked in any case. Therefore, we must make a choice. What can we do?"

"My son speaks with wisdom," said the Khondyë, finally speaking. "As for what you have said before, we can neither parley nor hide… But there is a chance for us to fight."

Tchakhura looked up sharply. How could they fight? Her father knew as well as any how outnumbered the _bamyë_ was.

Petakh too was frowning, her face puzzled. "We cannot, Khondyë," she said. "We are too few."

The Khondyë nodded. "Your words are true. I do not speak of fighting independently, but of joining forces."

"With whom?" Viatchund asked.

The Khondyë smiled grimly. "With Mekakhond."

"No," said Tchakhura immediately, shaking her head. "That would be folly. His tongue may be silver, but his heart is blacker than coal. We have our laws, we do not deal with dark magic of that kind."

But Viatchund was scratching his beard thoughtfully. "What advantage would it give us?" he asked.

"Greater numbers, greater strength," said the Khondyë, leaning forwards. Tchakhura flushed, wondering how many of the others had noticed how her father ignored her. He continued. "Banding with Mekakhond could mean a chance to strike at Gondor. It seems to me to be our only choice. And by your discussion before, I think you all would agree with me."

"Surely not," she spoke up again, unable to stay quiet. "You have seen his orc armies, the atrocities they commit with — with _pleasure,_ for their own amusement. Torture, even, needless torture. They are a foul breed, yet they comprise the armies of Mekakhond. You would have us join with them, become one with them, for revenge on Gondor? We may be desperate, but never have we stooped so low." Borund was nodding, but the others would not meet her eye; none of them save the Khondyë, who looked at her with contempt. Her stomach sunk to her toes.

"You are to be Khondyë when I am gone, girl," he said, his voice full of contempt. "But if it is the fate of the _bamyë_ to have a leader so weak, then it is a dark fate indeed."

There was stiff silence. Tchakhura lowered her gaze.

Her father was a strong Khondyë, even a great Khondyë. She knew he hated being forced to subdue to Gondor's constant attacks. She was his daughter, his own blood, and the tribe's powerlessness chafed at her too. She just wished she was not always a disappointment to him. Being the firstborn of the twins only made it worse; Tchakhura knew her father had wanted Tcharum, his son, to succeed him. She wished it too.

Certainly, Mekakhond was powerful. He had a mighty stronghold in the North, in the arms of the Encircling Mountains, and he had not ventured forth for a long time. In fact, the rumours held that he had been absent for hundreds of years, driven out by some greater force, an alliance of all peoples in the North. But, some fifty years before Tchakhura and Tcharum had been born, the tribes of Khand had felt the return of Mekakhond to his dominion. The elders described it in their fire-stories as a heaviness falling upon the land, a malice which could be felt in the sand and in the air. They said he was always watching, looking — though they never claimed to know what for — with his fiery red eyes. Tchakhura had dismissed these as old wives' tales, but now it seemed at least some were true: Mekakhond was returning to power.

"Let us then consider joining Mekakhond," Borund said reluctantly, breaking the silence. "Is this the wisest course? We have all heard the stories from the Easterlings in the North. Banding with Mekakhond gave them temporary strength, it is true, but it was strength in numbers only. Mekakhond never brought them to any great victory, nor did the battles bring them honour. May we not find strength in numbers without Mekakhond?"

"And with whom would you join forces?" the Khondyë asked. "The Easterlings from the North? They are already joined with Mekakhond. The Haradrim? They too. The opinion of our neighbouring tribes has been made clear. They will not band with us. So, our strength in numbers will be found with Mekakhond, or not at all."

"He is evil," Tchakhura said, her voice barely a whisper. She knew her father would not listen.

Tcharum looked up at her. "What else would you have us do?" he asked softly. Tchakhura shook her head hopelessly, holding her brother's eye. The _patchi_ fell silent again.

Finally, the Khondyë spoke. "We will adjourn for the present and meet again come sunrise. Think on what has been said, but know that in truth, little choice lies before us. _Khuma_. Go in peace."

Tchakhura waited in the _patchi_ with Tcharum until the others had left and they were alone with their father. The silence stretched on.

"Vadrë," Tchakhura began, but stopped when her father looked up sharply.

"I wish to hear no more of this, girl," he said, his voice growing in volume. "Did I raise you to be weak? Did you learn from me to think like a cowering thief?"

"Vadrë, she wishes only to speak," said Tcharum softly. The Khondyë glared at him but lowered his voice as he turned back to Tchakhura. His eyes were no gentler.

"Think as your brother thinks," he said. "Then you may be a worthy leader." He stood, brushed off his tunic, and left the _patchi_.

For a moment, all was quiet. Then Tcharum sighed. "Sister –"

"I hate it, brother. You do not know how I hate it when he does it! When he calls me _girl_ in front of the others."

"I do."

She shook her head, her voice growing bitter and loud. "But no matter what I do to please him, no matter how hard I try, he is never happy. I am unerringly loyal to him. I am the strongest of our women fighters, the best of all the _variagura_. I do my share of border watch and I try, Tcharum, I try to think like a warrior should."

"I know."

"But I cannot be good enough for him. I cannot be as good as you. And nobody will respect me as Khondyë when he treats me like this in front of them."

"You have already won our respect, sister. Do not fear that. And he loves you, you know," Tcharum said quietly. "In his own way."

Tchakhura looked at her hands, clenched in her lap. "As long as he rejects me, the tribe has licence to reject me. They will follow the Khondyë no matter what."

Tcharum sighed. "He is under stress at the moment, perhaps that is why he is hard on you. This business with Mekakhond worries him."

"It does us all. It is bigger than Mekakhond, though. Bigger than our Vadrë, bigger than us, bigger than Gondor and Khand. The world is moving. It is now that we must choose where to stand when it has settled; that is why we cannot join the shadow in the North."

Tcharum seemed to hesitate a moment, then he spoke. "Has Vadrë told you in full of Mekakhond's… bargain?"

Tchakhura sat forward, frowning. "Bargain? I haven't heard anything about that..."

"Then here is the truth, a truth the Khondyë would not have any others in the _bamyë_ know: if we do not join the armies of Mekakhond, he will send to us his armies of orcs. And they will have no mercy."

Tchakhura processed this in silence. So, that was it. They joined him, or they died. "That's how he recruited the Haradrim and the Easterlings," she murmured in realisation. "Why doesn't Vadrë want the tribe to know?"

"It is dishonest, but he wants them to think it is their own choice when they march to war." She nodded slowly, but somehow felt she still didn't understand. Everything seemed numb somehow; the colours of the _patchi_ cloth were muted, the lamps duller. After everything, there was no choice. And the Khondyë did not see fit to tell her, his successor.

The twins walked to the fire-ring together in silence, accepting their food from the fire-tenders and sitting to eat. The night was still, and the voices of the _bamyë_ , dampened by the vastness of the desert, joined the dull roaring of the fire. Tchakhura stared broodingly into the flames. This was her home: the fire, the desert sand, the sun, the millions of familiar stars. Her _bamyë,_ her tribe, was her family, and this was where they belonged.

To leave, for them, would be like losing half their identity. They were a part of the desert, and the desert was a part of them. If they left, if they joined forces with the Easterlings, the Haradrim, and the orc spawn of the Encircling Mountains, they would no longer be the people of Khand, because Khand would no longer recognise them.

 _Tcharand bamyë, tcharand khopyë_ , she thought. Loyalty to tribe and loyalty to family, a mantra drilled into every child in Khand before they even learned to walk. It was the essence of their way of life, their most sacredly kept law. The penalty for betrayal was death. But this felt like a new betrayal; leaving their home would be betraying themselves, even though they had no choice. _There is always a choice_ , her father's voice whispered in her mind.

She looked at her brother. "What path would you choose?" she asked. "If you had the choice."

He was staring into the fire, and the reflected flames danced in his dark eyes. "If I could choose, I would have us live in peace for all the ages," he said. Then he smiled ruefully and shook his head. "We are too far from being so to think of it. So now, I choose between staying or going? I do not pretend to love Mekakhond and his dark ways... but Gondor I hate. I hate them for being ruthless, I hate them for being without mercy, I hate them for killing my friends and my family and my _bamyë_ … We may have little choice, but we could also use this war as an opportunity."

"An opportunity for what?" said somebody. Tchakhura looked up, and despite everything couldn't help but smile. It was Borund. " _Khuma_ , you two," he said, sitting down by Tcharum.

"An opportunity for revenge on Gondor," said Tcharum.

"That is too heavy a topic to speak of outside the Khondyë's _patchi_ ," Borund said. "A change in subject would be welcome."

"Then tell me," Tcharum said innocently. "How fare the wedding plans?" Borund groaned and buried his face in his hands. "Save me," he mumbled.

"From your wife to be, or the wedding itself?" asked Tchakhura.

"Ah, not from you, my sweetest," said Borund, reaching across Tcharum to grab her hand, but he was pushed out of the way by Tcharum.

"Do not keep me from my beloved," Borund said, glaring. Tcharum and Tchakhura snorted in unison.

"Beloved? You two will be as happily married together as a mûmakil is happy living in a _patchi_ ," Tcharum said. "And do not think Tchakhura wishes to wed you herself too soon either."

"It is true," Tchakhura admitted. "I'm not exactly looking forward to stowing away my sword to become a mother. Fighting is the only thing I'm good at, and if I don't have that, I'll be the worst Khondyë that ever lived."

"Nonsense," said Borund. "You are too old and slow to fight now. By marrying you, I am saving you."

Tchakhura grinned. "From humiliating myself in battle? Or from humiliating you by showing our enemies you are outmatched by a woman at swordsmanship?"

"Ah, Tchakhura, admit the truth…"

"Just as soon as you admit I am the better fighter of us two."

"I cannot lie, it is forbidden."

"Then there shouldn't be a problem –"

"With every honesty," Tcharum cut in, "I dread the day you two get married. The day of Tchakhura's wedding will be the day my peace ends, I know it."

"You are just afraid of your sister becoming bored by lack of fighting," Borund said. "The law that no mother will fight was not made for Tchakhura Makhyë. She will swing a sword sooner than a broomstick."

"At your head," Tcharum replied. "She will be your wife, not mine."

They were still laughing later when Petakh ran into the fire-ring. "Khondyë!" she cried, saluting quickly. "News from the boundaries!"

The Khondyë stood immediately, his face grave. "Gondor?" he asked. Everyone in the fire-circle stiffened, the fighting men and women reaching for their swords.

"No," replied Petakh, catching her breath. "At least, I think not. There is an old man, travelling alone. He speaks our language with no accent, yet... he does not seem to be of Khand. He claims to have a message for the _bamyë_."

The Khondyë nodded slowly, but did not sit. "Bring him here."

The people in the fire-ring began whispering amongst themselves as Petakh left to bring the stranger. Tchakhura, Tcharum and Borund stood together and made their way closer to the Khondyë.

Minutes later, Petakh returned with the man. He was old, certainly; his beard was long and white and his face browned and wrinkled by the sun, but his eyes twinkled vigorously. He wore a long, faded blue cloak and carried a staff. On his head was a large, pointed hat, and he also had on a strange silver scarf. He looked about at the circle of people around him now, smiling at some private joke.

The Khondyë stepped forward into the ring of firelight, surveying the man.

" _Khuma_ , stranger. What business have you in our land?" he said, in his voice a warning. The man in the hat laughed and bowed deeply from the waist. His pointed hat fell off, but he caught it and nimbly swept it back onto his head. He looked up at the faces of those around him and smiled in a satisfied way, as though to ensure that everyone had seen his feat. The Khondyë cleared his throat.

The man snapped comically to attention, touching his right shoulder with his left fist in a salute.

" _Khuma_ , Khondyë! Your greeting was impressive, but unfortunately incorrect. I am no stranger in this land!" he cried, dropping the salute and waving his arms about emphatically.

Borund leaned closer to Tchakhura. "Do you know this man?" he whispered in her ear. Tchakhura shook her head, bemused.

At the lack of recognition, the stranger seemed to deflate a little. "Does no one among you remember me? Have I really been forgotten?" Silence met his words, until the Khondyë spoke again.

"State your name, if you are known," he said.

"You know my name," said the old man, his voice now wry, "though perhaps you have forgotten that I belong to it. I am Akhund."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, and Tchakhura looked more closely at the man. The elders of her _bamyë_ told stories sometimes, stories of a magic-man who did strange things and brought news of a changing world…

Borund spoke up suddenly. "Not Akhund who turned the flames different colours at night?" he said in wonder. "Akhund who told stories of fire-breathing snakes and green mountains higher than a thousand mûmakil, and Fair Men in the West who live forever?"

"But of course!" replied the man. " _Khuma,_ my dear Borund! I am glad to be remembered by one at least, if only for my stories. You have grown much since I last saw you. A good three feet at last."

" _Khuma_ Akhund," said the Khondyë, "if Akhund you are. It is nigh one score and four years since you last came."

Akhund frowned, lifting his hat to scratch his head thoughtfully. "It _has_ been many years," he said. "Why, Rovekh Khondyë, when I visited your _bamyë_ last you were but a boy, not yet thirty!"

The Khondyë's face remained emotionless. "State your business," he said.

"I see you are a boy still," muttered Akhund. Then he raised his voice. "But I have not come merely to see your faces, my dear people! I have come to give advice." He began to turn in a slow circle, speaking to all the _bamyë._ "A hard time is coming, my friends. Yes!" he added as someone snorted disbelievingly, "harder, perhaps, than now. Greater enemies than Gondor lie ahead, though they may disguise themselves as friends." He paused, completing the circle and catching Tchakhura's eye. His gaze was almost pitying, and she blinked, put off.

"If you wish to be victorious, forget not: greater things than hate will lend you strength." Akhund shifted his gaze away from Tchakhura and looked at the Khondyë. "No matter what orders you are given, choose goodness over cruelty." Then the magic man looked at Tcharum. "When hope seems lost, it is best to head for home. Oh – and never assume that people are dead, because they might not be."

Tcharum's mouth fell slightly open in confusion, but Akhund continued. "One last thing," he said quietly.

Every person went still; to Tchakhura, it seemed that the stars too were listening. Akhund spoke again, his voice still ominously quiet.

"I am gifted with foresight, Rovekh Khondyë. Sometimes the Valar, who you call the _Hamariag_ , send me dreams of what is to come when they deem it necessary. They did so one week ago."

Tchakhura hadn't known she was holding her breath. She exhaled, shaking her head. Why was her heart beating so fast? Borund glanced down at her, then took her hand. She didn't pull away.

"The prophecy concerns this _bamyë_ ," Akhund said. "This _bamyë_ , but also all the world and the fate of the Free Peoples. I judge it necessary that I share it here, on this night."

Suddenly, Akhund seemed to grow taller. The fire threw red light and shadow over his face, and his eyes glittered fiercely under the brim of his hat. Tchakhura tensed, prepared to reach for her knife, but then Akhund began to speak in a voice that rasped like the desert sand against the wind:

" _Fleeing from hate and hiding from fear,  
Betrayer of those who hold them most dear:  
First for life,  
Next for gold,  
Last to follow what heart has told.  
Light to be in a darkness unseen,  
Part of two worlds, yet torn between,  
The greatest will be, despite hatred and scorn,  
The lowest amongst you, the Khondyë's firstborn."_

Not one person moved. The only sound to be heard was the low roar of the fire. Finally, the Khondyë seemed to come to his senses.

"These words make no sense," he muttered, then he raised his voice. "These words make no sense! Do you mean to say there is one among us who is a traitor? A _khaviga_?" He spat the word.

"Yes," Akhund replied. He had shrunk back to his ordinary size, and now leaned heavily on his staff like an old man. "And that person is your daughter."

Tchakhura's blood froze in her veins. Slowly, one by one, the people began turning to look at her.

"No," she whispered. Why would someone say that? Why would _anyone_ say that? It was a lie. She felt a strange urge to laugh. No one in her _bamyë_ could possibly believe that she was a _khaviga_. She turned to look at Tcharum, and she caught her breath. He, her own brother, was staring back at her, his eyes bewildered, confused. Tchakhura took a shaking breath. Her own brother… why would he doubt her? How was it possible?

 _Khaviga._

The prophecy began echoing through her head, over and over, the only lines that mattered:

 _Betrayer of those who hold them most dear…_

"No," Borund breathed. His voice seemed bizarrely calm to Tchakhura's whirling mind. He dropped her hand, and stepped back, staring at her. "No, it cannot be…"

"I am no _khaviga_ ," Tchakhura whispered, her panic growing. She took a step back. Everywhere she looked there were condemning eyes, a circle of eyes, all of them directed at her…

"Khondyë! I am no _khaviga_ , the prophecy is a lie!" Her voice was growing higher and louder. Her breaths were fast and uneven. How could this be happening? How could it –

"Seize her," the Khondyë said quietly. "The law is unbreakable. Traitors must die."

Time froze. Tchakhura looked disbelievingly into her father's eyes. They were filled with disgust. Fury, and aversion. But worst of all, a shadow of satisfaction: that he had been right about her all along. He had been right, and his daughter had never been good enough. He had been right.

"Vadrë," she whispered. "Please…"

"Seize her!" he bellowed, and the circle of onlookers jolted into action. Four men ran at Tchakhura, and she sprinted straight towards one of them, twisting at the last moment so her shoulder hit his ribs. He grunted and fell backwards. Now she was at the edge of the ring of firelight, on the outside of the circle of people. She turned and suddenly saw everything, frozen in the moment. Her father, the Khondyë, loathing in his eyes. The wizard Akhund, leaning on his staff next to the fire, his eyes sad. The women, men and children, their faces pictures of disbelief. The Khondyë's daughter, the Makhyë, a _khaviga…_ and Borund and Tcharum. Her best friend and her brother. They stood together, motionless, where moments ago she had stood between them. But Tchakhura knew what she had to do.

She backed away, still facing the fire and her _bamyë._ If this so-called prophecy spoke truly, she was going to betray them. She looked at Tcharum and Borund.

" _Khuma_ ," she whispered, her fist to her shoulder in salute, her eyes never leaving them. Then she turned and sprinted away.

She could hear the shouts beginning behind her. Her pursuers were not far behind. Veering left and weaving in and out of the _patchu_ , she quickly came to her own. Loosely tethered outside was her horse. Tchakhura snatched the rope off the post it was looped around and vaulted onto the horse's back. The men chasing her were almost there - they were close, too close…

 _Khaviga,_ a voice whispered in her head. _Filthy khaviga_ …

"Go!" she cried, digging her heels into the horse's sides. He took off, fast as the wind, leaving Tchakhura's pursuers shouting in his wake. By the time they found their horses, she would have vanished into the night. They would have to wait until daybreak to see her tracks. Briefly, Tchakhura closed her eyes. She had escaped. She would not die tonight.

The Khondyë watched from the fire, his black eyes furious, as his daughter galloped away from the camp and into the cold, starlit desert. Away from her family, away from her _bamyë_. Away from all that she had ever known.

 _Khaviga._

* * *

 **Thanks for reading this far, and I really truly hope you are intrigued enough to read on! Let me know what you thought, and I'll see you in Chapter 2 where the story really starts to heat up...**

 **S**


	2. Flight

**2 — FLIGHT**

* * *

The Captain Mordakil surveyed his gathering men from the platform. They were a fierce sight, it could not be denied; row upon row of crimson-clad, heavily-armed warriors, ready to march. Behind them were the horsemen, and behind the horsemen were his three colossal mûmakil. The high midday sun glinted off polished spears and bronze armour. A light wind played with the standard behind which his men were rallied: a black desert snake on a red field.

Mordakil looked over them grimly. His army, the Black Viper army, was among the strongest of the Haradrim. They were ready for war – and war would follow, he knew. It always did when the Master called.

"Captain!" cried someone to his left. Mordakil turned, searching for the source of the voice. He saw one of the sentries escorting someone on horseback towards him. The horseman was not of Harad, Mordakil could see. His skin was not quite dark enough, and he was dressed in the way that the warriors of Khand did, in leather armour over a dark red tunic with a _vadi_ , a special cloth of the same colour, wrapped around his face to keep out the sand. He was fully armed with his curved sword at his waist and two long knives on his back. If this was a messenger from Khand, what message was he carrying? The man dismounted and bowed as Mordakil stepped off the platform.

"Hail, Captain," said the horseman in Kakathi, one of the Eastern Harad languages. Mordakil blinked; it seemed that the stranger was, in fact, a woman.

"Hail," he replied. "What business brings you to Harad, and whence have you come?"

The woman tugged the red cloth down so that Mordakil could see her face. She wasn't particularly pretty; her eyes were tired and bloodshot, and her face streaked with dust. But she had glittering black eyes and an obstinate chin, making it clear that she wasn't someone easily frightened.

"I hail from Khand, from the Westernmost Tribe," she said. "I have been riding for more than a week with little respite, yet still there are many miles for me to travel." She was telling the truth, Mordakil judged. Her movements were weary, and she had circles under her eyes.

"You are in need of water and supplies?" he guessed. The woman nodded.

"The Haradrim are a generous people. I ask only that myself and my horse may be watered and supplied before we move on."

"Where are you headed?" Mordakil asked.

"West," the woman replied vaguely. Mordakil narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but the woman met his gaze unflinchingly and did not elaborate.

"On another day I would ask questions," he said finally. "But today I have not the time. We must march. I will grant what you ask."

"I thank you," said the woman. Then, hesitating slightly, she gestured to the troops. "You are marching to battle," she remarked. Mordakil nodded, looking back over his men. They talked amongst themselves as they waited for everything to be readied, and for his order to march.

"Against who it is yet to be seen; I suspect Gondor, for they seem a universal enemy," he said.

The woman smiled humourlessly. "So they seem," she said. "But who are you fighting for?"

"The Master," replied Mordakil softly. "I know not what he is named in your tongue. Some call him the Lord of the Rings."

"Mekakhond," the woman murmured, gazing out at the army. "I see." Mordakil too looked out across the sea of red and bronze, his gaze landing on the placid mûmakil. They were peaceable, kindly creatures until they were put into battle; then they became vicious and frenzied. Much like men did, he knew.

"I might question the wisdom of fighting now, when all goes well for us," he said, almost to himself. "But such has been our way as far back as memory reaches, to come when the Master calls. It is too late, and too dangerous, to change." He looked back at the woman, who was regarding him steadily. "You will find water and supplies yonder," he said. "Fair travels to… the West."

The woman saluted him after the fashion of Khand. Mordakil returned it in the style of his own people, then watched as she led her horse away. He wondered what her errand was, where she would ride, why she was so reluctant to give information… He shook his head and remounted the platform. There was other business to attend to.

* * *

Tchakhura rode out of the Harad citadel at a good speed, leaving the army of dark-skinned soldiers and giant mûmakil in the desert behind her. After nine days of continuous riding, she was tired, and her muscles ached whichever way she moved. But after hearing what the Harad Captain had said, her thoughts were on other matters. Foreboding gnawed at her: something was brewing in the North without doubt. Mekakhond was seemingly recruiting armies from many places, not only Khand, and already they were going North.

She knew well enough from the stories how the _variag_ , the warriors of Khand, had fought alongside the Haradrim and the Easterlings for Mekakhond. But that alliance was in ancient times, for ancient reasons. This… this was different. This time, everyone knew what choice they had. And everyone – the Khondyë, her brother, the Captain of the Haradrim army – was making the wrong decision. This was not only a war of men. There were greater powers at work here.

* * *

Mordakil watched as the last lines of his men left the citadel, beginning their long march North. He went to his horse and tightened its saddle straps, ready to follow his men. Now that it had come to it, he was reluctant to leave. Mordakil had a bad feeling about this war. It was to be waged in the North, a war for the Northmen, and he had a growing sense that his people should have stayed in the South where they belonged.

"Captain!" came a cry. Mordakil turned to see a sentry accompanied by no less than six mounted warriors of Khand, all wearing their leather battle armour and all armed to the teeth.

"Greetings, Captain," said one of them, stepping forward and saluting. "My name is Viatchund, and I come with my friends from Khand."

"Hail," Mordakil replied warily.

"We are pursuing a girl who once belonged to our tribe, the Maruvikh _bamyë_. She is outlawed. We have tracked her to this place," Viatchund said. Mordakil sighed, and began to pity the woman he had met earlier that day. There was only one crime the people of Khand would treat so seriously, and that was betrayal. In Khand, the punishment for that was always death.

Still, her affairs were none of his business, and he had to leave with his troops. "The woman has already passed through," he said, mounting his horse. "Farewell." He rode away, without looking back.

* * *

Tchakhura was bone weary when she rode into the City of Corsairs, hundreds of miles from her home. But at the open City gates, she roused herself. From all accounts, the City was not the sort of place one would want to be caught off guard, so she couldn't afford to be tired. She dismounted, nodding warily to the guard there. He smiled at her, showing a total of four teeth. Wincing slightly, she passed through.

The City was a large collection of ramshackle wooden buildings, most looking as though a single gust of wind would topple them, built long ago at Umbar on the South-Western coast. Tchakhura had visited the city of Variakhand with her father and brother once, on a diplomatic journey; it was one of the cities in Khand where thousands of people of all tribes lived together. The noises, the smells and all the people had amazed her.

But this place was different. It was a city of mercenaries, of pirates. Those who sailed in the black dromonds of Umbar were known for their ferocity and ruthlessness – and, admittedly, their drunkenness. They were chiefly occupied with terrorising ships up and down the Western coast of Harad and selling their prizes for money to spend on taverns and women. In the twilight, the crowded buildings seemed menacing, looming high and precariously over the roads. A cold gust of wind smelling of salt overlaid the other city smells: not of food and sand and horses, like in Variakhand, but odours of too many unwashed people living too close together. It was different to Khand, so different it didn't quite seem real.

To Tchakhura, it seemed that someone had collected the most unsavoury men of every race and dropped them in the City of Corsairs; as she led her horse through the poorly cobbled streets, she was leered at by black men of Far Harad, brown-skinned men of Harad, tanned Easterlings and white Northmen alike. Uncomfortable, she tightened her grip on her horse's reins and pulled up her _vadi,_ so it covered all of her face but her eyes. With some relief, she saw no one who looked as though they were from Khand. In the gathering gloom, most of the light issued from the numerous taverns. Every so often, a door would bang open and light, laughter, raucous singing and, occasionally, an unconscious man would spill onto the street.

Tchakhura stepped gingerly over one such man now and wondered desperately what she was going to do. So far on her journey she had thought only of fleeing, but now she was as far West as the land would take her. And though she was sure her hunters were far behind her, she had no wish to spend more time than necessary in this dirty excuse for a city where she was just as likely to have her throat cut by a drunken pirate as to die from the smell. She sighed, reluctantly considering asking at an inn for a room, when a man stepped up beside her.

"Why, hello again," he said.

In a whirl of movement, Tchakhura pinned him up against the wall of a building with a knife against his throat. Blood pounded in her ears until she realised who it was.

"Akhund?" she said in surprise. Akhund smiled kindly, then grabbed her wrist and twisted it. Suddenly, impossibly, in a split second they had switched places. Now the knife was at _her_ throat. But his smile widened, and he handed it back.

"Best not to try that again," he said pleasantly.

"Please go," said Tchakhura wearily, sheathing the knife. She began walking again, leading her horse away from the magic-man, but he fell into step beside her.

"You seem somewhat ill at ease, my dear," said Akhund as easily as though he was talking about the weather.

Tchakhura snorted and turned a corner, with no idea where she was headed. She did not wish to speak to this man, now less than ever. "Perhaps," she said tersely, "that is because you have convinced my _bamyë_ that I am a _khaviga_ , and they would dearly love to see my head detached from my shoulders."

"Yes," said Akhund. "I _am_ sorry about that part."

Tchakhura abruptly turned again into a darker, narrower street. "It is too late now to take back the prophecy," she said shortly. "It cannot be untold."

"You misunderstand me," said Akhund, and his face turned sombre. "I am not sorry that your _bamyë_ heard the prophecy; that had to be done, and it is better this way. What I mean to say is that I'm sorry this burden is yours to bear. I wish otherwise, but this prophecy can be fulfilled by none but you. It is your fate."

A title she had no wish to bear. _It is better this way_ , he had said. Tchakhura thought of her family, her tribe, the people she belonged with, people who now thought she had broken their most sacred law because of a prophecy she had no control over. To them, she was lower than dirt, and Akhund thought it was _better this way_? She took another turn and said, "I want nothing to do with fate."

"My dear girl," said Akhund in a voice that was kind and warm like she had once wished her own father's voice could be. "You are lost, alone in a city of strangers whose language you do not understand. You have nothing to bargain with and no place to stay. I advise that you come with me, and tomorrow —"

"No," said Tchakhura. "No. I owe you nothing, Akhund, and so far you have done nothing but ruin my life. What makes you think that I am fool enough to go with you?"

Akhund shook his head and sighed dramatically. "I had rather hoped you wouldn't be fool enough to go off alone. But alas! What are my words to you now?" Tchakhura let her silence speak for itself. "Then, if you will not take that piece of advice, take another: journey North, for such is your fate."

"And if I do not?" asked Tchakhura, quietly but firmly. "If I go South, or stay? You talk of fate again; you think, perhaps, that it is decreed by the _Hamariag_. But they have also said that I am a _khaviga_ , and that is a lie. Why should the other things they say be true?"

Akhund was not fazed. "Should you go South, should you stay? Fate is a river, my dear girl, and all of us drifters in it. At times we may paddle in one direction or another, but it is not often that we can swim against the flow. You will go North, I think, willing or no."

North. She nearly had to laugh. Here in the City, she was further from her home than her tired mind could begin to comprehend. What was in the North? More white men? Her destiny would not be there. How could it? There was nothing for her there. Nothing for her anywhere but Khand, where she could not go… Suddenly the world seemed too enormous for her. She hated the feeling.

"They say you are wise, Akhund," she whispered.

Akhund stopped walking and took her brown hand in his own weathered one and smiled. "To accept one's fate is not to be powerless," he said. "Nor does acknowledging fear show cowardice. There is more to you than a prophecy, my dear. Remember that." She was exhausted. His words were barely registering.

"One more thing," he said. "A favour for me, if you like. Perhaps, in the coming years, you will come across an old man who looks a little like myself. He has a long beard, and he dresses all in grey with a silver scarf and a blue pointed hat. His eyebrows are especially prominent," he added with a smile. "Should you come across a man such as this… tell him that Pallando sent you. And… give him my best." He stepped back, adjusting his hat and looking up at the sky. "It will rain soon, if I know anything at all," he said. "Go in peace, my dear; expect the unexpected, and if you manage that, do not forget to expect the expected." He turned on his heel and opened the door of a small house on the street, then looked back over his shoulder. "I feel sure we will meet again," he said, then he slammed the door behind him.

Tchakhura stood still for a moment, staring at the door. Her horse nickered softly, and she leaned her forehead into his warm side.

"Wizards, hmm?" she said to him. "I think they speak nonsense on purpose to appear wise. But I don't deal with people who speak in riddles. Do you?" The horse didn't reply.

She knew she would have to move eventually. She couldn't stand out in the middle of the street forever, yet she could not quite bring herself to move. All her limbs were heavy with tiredness. All she wanted to do was sleep, but she did not know where, or how. She did not know if she could be safe in this strange place, when she was finally as far as she could go.

Something cold touched her hand. She jerked away from the horse, her right hand going to her knife… but the street was empty. She shook her head, thinking she must have imagined it - but it happened again. Incredulous, she looked up at the sky. Night had fallen, but the stars were covered with clouds. _Clouds._

"Rain," she whispered. It was raining. She held out her hand, palm upwards, to catch another drop. One landed there, right in the centre, and stayed like a tiny glass bead. The drops came thicker and faster now. Tchakhura unwrapped her _vadi_ from around her face and closed her eyes, feeling the rain touch her face with its hundreds of little fingers. It would be a story to tell when she got home, she thought. Then she remembered, and she opened her eyes. She would never go home. She'd never tell Borund what the water had felt like on her skin. She would never tell Tcharum what the rain had sounded like when it hit the cobblestones drop after drop…

Someone was behind her. She ducked behind her horse as the voices came closer, close enough to listen.

"... will never find her here, the City is too large." The voice belonged to a child, a girl or boy, and it was strangely familiar. Tchakhura frowned, still hidden by the horse, trying to focus her exhausted mind. There was something she was missing, something important that she was missing…

"It is the best we can do," someone replied. "We know she is somewhere in here, we tracked her all the way through Harad." Tchakhura's eyes widened. Suddenly all exhaustion disappeared. She could understand the speakers. She could _understand_ them, and that meant… her stomach clenched. They were speaking her language. Holding her breath, she listened. The child was speaking again.

"But the Makhyë is not stupid. The moment she knows that we are here she will leave, in any direction. How will we find her then?"

"She is a _khaviga_ , Mugura. We will find her and kill her, because it is her fate to die." That voice belonged to Petakh. Silently thanking the darkness, Tchakhura began to creep backwards into an alleyway behind her. The voices grew louder, coming closer.

"We have warned the gate-guards anyway. They will not let Tchakhura pass. If she –" Petakh gasped in shock, then ran to the mouth of the alleyway, coming into view. Tchakhura swore under her breath and moved faster. They had seen the horse, it wouldn't take them long to realise.

"This is… this is her horse!" Petakh said. Then she turned and shouted. "Mugura! Go call the others! Go!"

Tchakhura did not wait to see if Petakh would come. She turned to run, but immediately stopped. She was faced by a wall, patchily constructed with half-rotted planks of wood, but blocking her way just the same. The alleyway was a dead end.

Behind her, Petakh was peering into the darkness, but she hadn't spotted Tchakhura yet. There was time… but not enough. Tchakhura stepped up and wedged the toe of her boot into a crack between the wooden planks. She found another with her fingers, and she pulled herself up. She continued climbing, but the higher she got, the less shadow there was to cover her. Gritting her teeth, she kept climbing, waiting for a triumphant cry from behind her…

It came. "She is here!" Petakh shouted, her voice rising over the increasing patter of rain. "I found the _khaviga_ , she is here! I found Tchakhura Makhyë!"

Petakh sprinted forwards, but she was too late. Tchakhura launched herself onto the roof of a building and scrambled to her feet. She began to run up the tiled rooftop, catching the top to pull herself up, then sliding down the other side. When she reached the edge, she jumped to the next, stumbling a little before running up the next roof. Risking a glance down at the road, she saw Petakh running parallel to her on the ground, matching her speed. She cursed. The rain was increasing, making the rooftops slippery, and the triangular slopes were steep. It became a pattern: run up, catch the peak of the roof before she lost momentum, pull herself up. Slide down the other side on her heels, trying not to lose her balance or slip on the shingles, then jump to the next building. Run, pull, slide, jump.

Her legs began to burn with the effort. Grinding her teeth, Tchakhura leaped to the next building. She forced her legs to propel her up, but when she reached the top, she paused. There was someone running over the rooftops towards her, hemming her in. Viatchund. Had the whole of her _bamyë_ come to kill her? Quickly, she turned and ran back down the way she had come, jumping to the roof she had just left.

The rain sent cold fingers down her back as she vaulted over the rooftops, trying desperately not to slip. She squinted into the gloom ahead at every peak, hoping desperately that the gap between houses would not become too great… someone clambered onto the roof in front of her. Cursing, she risked losing her balance for a glimpse behind her. Viatchund was still hot in pursuit.

Thinking quickly, she dropped to her knees mid-stride, and slid down, over the slippery tiles and off the edge of the roof. She twisted in the air and grabbed at the last row of tiles. She kept her grip, and grunted in pain as her body swung and slammed into the wall of the building. But she couldn't afford to slow down. As she hung by her fingertips, she searched with her feet for a foothold. She found one and used it to lower herself down, climbing lower and lower until she was close enough to the ground to drop. As soon as she hit the street she sprinted away through the pouring rain. There were shouts behind her and either side of her, so she ran in the only direction she could: forwards. She had to get away; she needed to escape, but it seemed impossible.

She turned blindly, her breath coming in ragged gasps and her legs burning. The shouting had stopped, but Tchakhura knew they would not have given up. Not yet.

Suddenly, through the rain, she saw a pile of old barrels twice as high as she was tall, piled against the back wall of a tavern. She darted into the shadows beside them, flattened herself against the wall and tried to quiet her gasping breaths. She listened.

Apart from the drumming of the rain, the thudding of her heart and her stifled breathing, she could hear nothing. When her pulse slowed enough, she cautiously began to edge along the wall until she reached the corner. With one eye, she peered around.

Instantly she whipped back, her heart in her throat. There was a man, she had seen the black silhouette of a man, creeping through the rain towards her… not daring to move, she stayed pressed against the wall for several minutes. Nobody came. Tchakhura exhaled with relief. A pirate, she thought, it must have been one of the pirates –

Suddenly her head was slammed back against the wall, and she saw stars. She could feel the body of the man, close before her, but she could still see nothing. He had trapped her between himself and the wall, his forearm pressed hard against her throat and his other hand roughly gripping her shoulder, his fingers digging in painfully… Thinking quickly, Tchakhura pressed her own hand to her attacker's mouth so he couldn't cry out for help.

They stood like that for a few moments, until Tchakhura's vision cleared. She squinted through the dark and rain. "Borund?" she whispered. His eyes held hers. Tchakhura had half expected them to be hate-filled and angry. Instead, they just seemed wary. The fear and adrenaline began to drain out of her, and she felt suddenly helpless.

"Do you hate me?" she rasped, hardly able to breathe. He made no answer. Slowly, she lowered her hand, so he could speak. As soon as she did, he shook his head.

"You know I do not," he said, holding her gaze. "I never have. I never will." He took his arm away from her throat, dropping it so it rested on her other shoulder. She took a deep, shuddering breath, relieved. "But Tchakhura, where is my friend? Where is the girl I know, the girl who fears nothing, the girl who would give everything for her friends, for her bamyë? Where is the girl I am to marry? She is who I love. She is no _khaviga_."

"It is _me_ , Borund!" said Tchakhura pleadingly. "I never wished to leave! I had no choice, you must – you _must_ understand!' Her voice had started shaking, and she took a deep breath to steady herself. "I am not a _khaviga._ I am the last person who would betray anyone I love. The prophecy is false – it is, I cannot lie – but while my father believes it, so must the _bamyë_. I know I cannot return. I have no choice." An echo of the Khondyë's voice rang in her ears. _There is always a choice_ …

Borund smiled weakly, the rain making tracks down his face, collecting on his eyelashes and dripping from his nose. "I know," he said. "I know you cannot choose, and I wish I could make the Khondyë believe the truth. I wish that I could stay with you… yet I cannot. _Tcharand bamyë, tcharand khopyë._ "

Tchakhura smiled back. "You are my _khopyë,_ Borund."

His smile faded, and for a moment he looked searchingly into her eyes. "Swear to me something," he said. "Give me your word: if we meet again someday, and things are... different, promise me you will come back to us."

"I do not know if I will ever see you again, or Tcharum, or the others," she said. Suddenly she felt terrified, of something she could not see. What if they never _did_ meet again? What if she stayed forever without a _khopyë_?

"Just swear it to me," he said. She hesitated, then nodded once. She didn't know if he could see it through the dark and the rain, but the oath had been sealed. And oaths were never broken.

"Go in peace, Tchakhura," he said. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. " _Khuma._ " For a moment, his hands lingered on her face; then he stepped back, into shadow, and disappeared.

Tchakhura sighed, wiping the rain from her face. She shook her head, trying to clear it, trying to think what direction she needed to run, trying to focus. Suddenly she heard Borund's voice from the near distance, crying: "She is here! She is here!"

 _Thank you, my friend_ , she thought. He had lied for her. She began moving in the other direction. The streets were empty, save for a few sleeping or unconscious men, huddled against the walls to keep dry. Tchakhura hurried past them, quietly as she could, hoping none would wake, or raise an alarm. All her senses were on edge, waiting for something to happen…

One of the shadows moved. Instinctively, Tchakhura launched into a sprint, and a fraction of a second later, a dagger whistled through the air where her head had been. So it was Petakh then, the prize knife-thrower. Tchakhura ran on through the rain, her legs already protesting, her breathing short and ragged. She was tired, but she ran on.

Up ahead, the she could see another road, perpendicular to the one she was on now, but nothing beyond. Then she realised: it was the edge of the City. It was the _sea._ She ran full pelt and turned right onto the street. Now, to her left, she could see large, wooden structures in the water, creaking and groaning like sleeping beasts. They were dromonds, she realised, the heavy pirate ships sailed by the Corsairs of Umbar.

She ran on. Her head pounded with every step, and she felt her exhaustion catching her. How was it possible she was still going? How much longer would she be able to continue, to forestall her death? She glanced behind. Petakh was gaining little by little on her, running with her teeth bared and another knife brandished. Tchakhura stumbled and cursed and turned back to face where she was going. Her breath caught in her throat. Ahead, she could see a light through the heavy rain. A lantern, moving out, further out – to where there should only be water.

Tchakhura frowned as she sprinted down the road. Only water… or a boat. She could see it now, she was coming closer and closer. The crew had shoved off, and the ship glided silently away from the docking. It was too far… but it was her only hope.

Her decision made, Tchakhura increased her pace. She knew she would likely leap to her death – she had never tried to swim before, and she knew being buried in water would kill as surely as being buried in sand – but it was now a choice between certain death or probable death. Certain death if she didn't jump: she could hear Petakh's thudding feet behind her, and now her laboured breathing. Probable death if she did jump, but the chances were the best she would get.

She was there. Bracing herself, she pivoted to her left and ran headlong towards the edge of the dock. Then she took a flying leap, reaching, reaching…

She caught the edge of the ship and her knees slammed hard into the wood. She hung there, trying to pull her body up, but her arms were trembling, too weak. She could not move, even when another of Petakh's knives slammed into the wood inches from her head. She could feel death coming. Every shuddering breath she took became elongated, and time stretched, each moment with the potential to be the last before the next knife found her head…

Someone from above grabbed her wrists and heaved her over the side, onto the ship. She fell onto the deck in a gasping heap but got up just as quickly.

On the shore, Petakh was standing alone in an island of lamplight, her last knife clutched in her hand by her side, too far away to be of use. Behind her, Borund stepped into the circle of light. Through the rain, Tchakhura thought she saw him give a small nod. So, she was safe for the time being. Safe…

Then she remembered the arms that had pulled her on board. She whirled, coming face to face with twenty or so men – pirates – all staring at her, all brandishing weapons.

Tchakhura drew her sword.

* * *

 **Think Pirates of the Caribbean crossed with Lord of the Rings, but with less white people. It's all coming up in Chapter 3!**

 **S**


	3. The Haedannen

**3 — THE HAEDANNEN**

* * *

The girl drew her sword.

When Mahaya had first pulled her aboard, he'd thought she was a man. Her shoulders were broad, and she was stocky and muscled. Moreover, she wore a tunic like a man, not a dress like the women in this part of the world. But after watching her for a few moments, he had realised he was wrong. Now the girl watched them, breathing heavily and trembling, her sword held tightly in her right hand. She was swaying where she stood, and Mahaya could see she was exhausted.

"Peace," Remuil said, stepping forward with his palms held upwards to show he meant no harm. "No harm will come to you if you bring none to us." The girl blinked tiredly at the captain, clearly not understanding.

"He's a dullard," said Grimbold. "Look at him. He won't understand a word you speak to him, Captain."

"If there is a dullard here, Grimbold, it is you," snapped Harûk. "If he speaks a different language, it does not mean he is stupid. And besides: he is a she."

Grimbold opened his mouth to retort, but then shut it, frowning when he realised what Harûk had said. "He's a… he's a woman?" He took a long look at the girl. She looked to be on the verge of collapsing.

Mahaya glanced at Remuil. "Perhaps an Eastern Harad dialect?" he said. The captain nodded once, and Mahaya turned back to the girl. Long ago, he had lived in the East of Near Harad. He knew a little of the tongues spoken by the tribes nearer to his city, but he was not sure the stranger would understand. She looked like she came from further East; her eyes were black and her skin was brown, but not dark enough to be one of the Haradrim.

"Do you speak Mbilo?" he asked carefully. She looked up, a spark of recognition behind the sadness and exhaustion in her eyes.

"Yes," she replied in the same language, her voice laden with hard caution. "A little."

He nodded. "No weapon," he said, gesturing to her sword and sheathing his own. "We are friends." Mahaya kept his eyes fixed on the girl but spoke to the crew in the Common Tongue. "Put your blades away," he said. They did as they were told, and after a moment's hesitation, the girl did too.

Mahaya smiled at her, speaking once more in Mbilo. "Who are you?" he asked.

A sudden change came over her; her face became fearful again, and her hand went back to the hilt of her sword. She stared at him, but her eyes did not seem to be seeing. " _Khaviga_ ," she whispered, then staggered forwards. She regained her balance, and for a moment she teetered. Then she fell, unconscious, to the deck.

For a moment, the only sound was that of the water lapping up against the ship. Then Remuil stirred.

"Hands by the halyards!" he called. "Stand by to reef top-gallant sails! I wish to be well clear of the City by dawn!" The crew leapt into action, calling to each other as they went about their work. Remuil looked at Mahaya after they dispersed.

"What did you say to her?" he asked quietly.

"Not much," Mahaya replied. "I asked her who she was. She replied with that word, _khaviga_. I don't recognise it, but… I do not think it is a name."

Remuil nodded. "Take her to a hammock below," he said. "We will try to speak to her again when she wakes."

Mahaya nodded and bent to lift the girl. He paused. "Is she… safe, Captain? For us to keep?"

Remuil half shrugged and smiled his unreadable smile. "I think that perhaps the Haedannen will have a new member in her crew," he said. Mahaya nodded and took the girl below deck. She was a mystery, certainly, but a mystery which would keep for later. And Mahaya knew that when it came to waiting, Remuil was the best.

* * *

Tchakhura woke in the dark, every muscle in her body aching. For a moment, she lay still, allowing her eyes to stay shut, treasuring the peace before she would have to go out and start the day.

Something creaked.

Tchakhura's eyes flew open and in sudden panic, she writhed, struggling to free her arms. They were stuck beneath her, and the thing she was trapped in — some kind of hessian cage — made it difficult to move. Finally, she worked her arms free, and she felt about her. The coarse material was all around her, except for an opening at the top. She grabbed the edges and pulled herself into a tenuous sitting position, panting. She could see in the dim light that there were other contraptions like the one she was in, lengths of material hung from the ceiling at each end. They were all swinging from side to side.

The realisation hit her: the pirates had imprisoned her in the belly of their ship, at sea. She was in a floating bowl of wood in the middle of the ocean. Tchakhura clapped a hand over her mouth as a wave of nausea flooded through her. It passed after a few moments, and she looked up again. The moving room full of hanging material was empty of people, save herself. Cautiously, she swung one leg over the edge of the material, then the other. She pushed herself out and jumped onto the floor.

Immediately, she lost her balance and fell forwards with a thud onto the wooden floor. Cursing quietly, she pulled herself to her feet and brushed off her tunic. The floor tilted suddenly in the other direction, and she stumbled sideways. She hoped she had been right, that there was no one in the room; out of habit, she reached for her sword, but she started when she found the pirates had left it buckled to her belt. She glanced about again, feeling more confident, and saw a set of steps leading up into the light.

Cautiously, she made her way towards them, wobbling with each step. No pirates jumped out to put a sword at her throat. She gripped the handrail, took a deep breath, and made her way up into the light.

* * *

"Hoy, masthead!" Harûk shouted up at Grimbold, who was perched on the cross beam of the mast. "Any ships?"

"I would have shouted if there were, wouldn't I?" Grimbold yelled down and turned back to continue surveying the horizon. Harûk scowled and began pacing. Mahaya sighed and massaged his temples. He was tiring of his friend's impatience, beginning to think he would prefer the company of a five-year-old.

"Harûk," he said, "please stop."

Harûk snorted, not pausing. "Do you have a better alternative? See any pirates whose heads need knocking in? No? Then pacing it is."

"You are going to drive me mad."

"You will drive me mad sooner, with all your… stupid calmness, or whatever you like to call it."

"Patience?" Mahaya suggested. "Sanity?"

"Don't care," said Harûk. Then he whirled around and drew his sword. "Fight with me," he said with a grin, his eyes now alight with the prospect. Mahaya rolled his eyes and looked back out to sea.

"No. Fight with Grimbold when he comes down."

"Not a good plan… my sword may slip, very much accidentally, and cut out his ugly tongue. Why will you not fight? We haven't seen corsairs since we left the City full of them."

Mahaya shook his head, looking back out across the sea. "The Captain doesn't like it."

Harûk ceased his pacing and looked at Mahaya incredulously. "The Captain doesn't like it?" he mimicked. "Since when were you Remuil's lapdog?"

"Quiet," Mahaya said softly, standing straighter and looking towards the stairs which led down into the hold.

"Oh come _on_ , Mahaya, why won't you just –"

"Shut up!" Mahaya hissed, nodding towards the stairs. "Our sleeper has risen."

Harûk looked in the direction Mahaya had indicated, and his face lit up again with a grin. The girl, who had been sound asleep for nearly three days, was peering up warily at the deck. She had not seen them, and Mahaya quickly looked away. He didn't want her to know he'd been watching.

Harûk came to stand beside Mahaya and nudged him with his elbow. "Shall we give her the proper welcome aboard?" he asked.

Mahaya raised an eyebrow, trying to keep sight of the girl out of the corner of his eye. "I doubt she would appreciate being doused with seawater. And I left her with her sword," he added, "so it might be you who is worse off."

"You're right, she doesn't seem the… damsel type, does she?"

Mahaya frowned, turning away from the sea and positioning himself so he could see the girl easily over Harûk's shoulder, but to her, appear to be talking. "Damsel type?" he asked.

"Well… you know what I am trying to say. Grimbold tells those tales of the women in the North. In their skirts, you know."

"Well she's definitely not Northern," Mahaya said distractedly, watching as the girl cautiously climbed one step higher, staying low. "She looks Eastern, I think. Maybe Khandi."

Harûk frowned. "Aren't the Khandi people the crazy ones with the scary women and that thing about telling the truth?"

"Something like that," said Mahaya, watching over Harûk's shoulder. "And it does not seem that our scary woman will be moving anytime soon."

"Fair choice," Harûk said. "The deck is crawling with… all of us."

"We will help her along, then," Mahaya decided. "Come on – but try not to be too… obvious."

He casually began walking towards the stairs. Harûk followed him, trying his best to hide his grin. "This is the slyest thing you have ever done, my friend," he said.

Mahaya rolled his eyes. "I don't want to frighten her, that's all," he said. They continued walking, slowly, until they were level with the stairs that led down into the hold.

Harûk glanced sidelong at them, then turned to look fully, his eyes widening. "She is gone," he said, bewildered. Mahaya peered down, squinting at the dark. "She might have –"

Suddenly, there was a flurry of movement behind them. Harûk grunted in surprise, and Mahaya whirled, drawing his sword. The girl was holding Harûk tightly, despite her being a full head shorter than him, a long knife pressed to his throat.

" _Abatchond khamë u miduvkheta mithiri!_ " she said fiercely, her eyes on Mahaya. Slowly, he bent and lay his sword on the deck, hoping that was what she'd wanted him to do. Straightening up, he held his hands out, palms facing up.

"Do you understand her?" Harûk asked, his voice coming out strangled. The girl pressed the knife closer to his throat, and he grunted.

"No," Mahaya replied. He tried to smile at the girl, but it came out as a grimace. How in all the world was he going to get out of this?

She spoke again, her voice low and harsh. " _Bohata gamuro u khamë dom tchorviag_."

"Maybe she is speaking gibberish on purpose," Harûk wheezed, "just to throw you off."

Mahaya opened his mouth to reply, but he hesitated when he saw the girl's eyes widen. She was looking behind him. He turned and breathed a sigh of relief. It was Remuil.

The captain paid him no heed, his eyes fixed on the girl's face. He stepped forwards leisurely, his left hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. "Let Harûk go," he said, his voice calm and quiet, with only a hint of a threat. The girl's eyes flickered to behind Remuil, where a number of the crew had gathered, then back to his face. Reluctantly, she released Harûk and stepped back. Harûk fell to his knees, gasping and rubbing his neck.

"What is your name?" Remuil asked, his voice still calm. The girl made no reply, and Mahaya tried in Mbilo.

"What do you call yourself?"

Her eyes didn't move from Remuil's, and her knife did not waver. She remained silent.

"You will not speak? Alright, silent woman. We shall call you Tíniel," Remuil said, and he smiled as though he'd made a joke. "Tíniel, you are on our ship now. You are a part of the crew of the _Haedannen_. Please do not kill your fellow ship's hands." He paused and looked at Harûk. "Are you alright?"

Harûk looked up and grinned. "You have just told me that my would-be assassin to be is now part of the crew," he said. "Never have I been happier."

* * *

All around the ship was water. It was as wide as the desert, but it moved. Tchakhura had never seen a colour like the strange, deep, shifting blue. Even Akhund the magic-man's tales had not prepared her for it. It made her feel small and powerless, and afraid — not to mention unrelentingly queasy.

The black-haired, white-skinned Northman, the man who seemed to be the Khondyë of the ship, said something to her again. She held his gaze, trying to disregard the expanse of the sea she could see behind him, and maintained her grip on her knife. The captain had a strange, unnerving quality about him. He was tall, taller than all the others, and his eyes were deep and blue like the ocean, but there was something else that made him seem different. His eyes seemed to cut right through her, to the bone. She caught a glimpse of his hands. They looked burned, as though they'd been held in flames until the flesh began to melt. She frowned and looked back up at his face.

He looked down and said something to the man at her feet, who grinned and replied in a deep, rumbling voice, making all the other men laugh. The captain smiled too, then looked back at Tchakhura and pointed to himself. "Remuil," he said. The man of Near Harad who had spoken to her on the first night followed suit, putting his hand on his chest.

"I am Mahaya," he said in Mbilo. "You are with us now. One with us also."

She looked from Mahaya to Remuil, then to the rest of the crew, not loosening her grip on her knife.

" _Welcome_ ," Mahaya said in the strange language that Remuil was speaking, then he switched back to Mbilo. "Means… you are happy here. We are happy when you are here. _Welcome_."

"Welcome, Tíniel," said Remuil. There was a grumble of voices behind him as his men echoed him. For a moment, there was just the sound of the water against the ship. Then Tchakhura reluctantly tucked her knife back into her belt and nodded. She had thought she was a prisoner, among enemies; but for some foolish reason, these men were accepting her – though they had no idea who she was, where she was from, or what she was to become.

* * *

 _Seven Months Later: 3014, Third Age_

Tíniel stood on her toes, squinting at the horizon. The blue of the sky merged endlessly with the deeper blue of the sea, but she could see nothing where they met. Nor could Harûk.

"Damn Remuil and his damned eyesight," he muttered next to her, fruitlessly searching the ocean like Tíniel and the rest of the crew.

"Did you say something, Harûk?" the captain called from the prow, too far away to possibly have heard anything, even of Harûk's deep voice. Harûk rolled his eyes exaggeratedly and lapsed again into inaudible mutters. Tíniel smiled. Everyone on the _Haedannen_ knew there was something odd about Remuil, something different — his alarmingly good sight and hearing, for one — but it was something that was never talked about.

That was the unspoken law on the ship: no matter the person, no matter their past, no questions were asked. That was why _Haedannen_ was such an oddity among the other corsairs. It was a haven for men of all lands, of the North or the South, a place for them to make a new life, a place for them to belong when there was nowhere else. It was perfect for Tíniel; if anyone on the ship found out who she was, that she was a traitor… She shook herself back to the present, banishing the dark thoughts from her mind. Of late she had been thinking less of her past. It was better that way. Sometimes, it almost felt like she had escaped her doom.

"There!" came Grimbold's triumphant call from the masthead. "To the South-East! Corsairs, to be sure!"

Tíniel turned to face the direction Grimbold had pointed, and searched for the thing Remuil had been able to see long before the rest of them. She could see it, but only barely. The ship was just a dark speck on the horizon; it would be hours before they caught her.

"The wind is in the North," Remuil called. "Trim the sails. I want men on oars, three a side! We can run this corsair down before dusk!"

There was a general chorus of "Aye, Captain!" and the men sprang into action. Tíniel moved with them, taking a rope on the foremast and heaving to tighten it. She'd grown used to – and even fond of – her life aboard the _Haedannen_. There was a comforting rhythm to it, and a new familiarity to the feeling of an oar in her hands, the taste of the salt on the air and the sound of the waves mingled with Remuil's incessant singing.

It didn't budge; it was stuck, something preventing it from running smoothly. She cursed under her breath, glancing around to check if anyone had seen her weakness. Nobody had. She turned back and tugged again, bracing her foot against a balustrade. The rope refused to tighten. Suddenly, a pair of rough hands joined hers.

"Need some help, lovely?" asked the man. It was Jako, a swarthy, brown-skinned man probably from Near Harad. He grinned at her, displaying two frequently interrupted rows of yellow teeth. Tíniel winced. "No, Jako," she replied, "but I thank you."

Jako did not leave her. "But I _wish_ to help you," he said, moving closer. Tíniel edged backwards. "It must get so lonely, doing everything on your own…"

Tíniel let go of the rope and casually drew one of her knives, running her fingers along its edge. "No," she said again. "I rather would to stay alone than to be passing my times with someone I do not want to see."

He stepped closer again. "I could show you some things you'd want to see," he breathed. Tíniel raised her eyebrows.

"Do you want to know a secret?" she whispered back. Jako's grin widened; he leaned closer, and she continued. "A long, long time ago, there is magic-man. He put a – a terrible spell upon me, to make that whoever is the man that I love, he will die with sword in his heart…"

The grin died on Jako's face, and his eyes widened slightly. Tíniel did not stop, making her voice low and ominous. "This man, his fate is – is be to have so much pain and so much hurting, and lose all his honour... Now," she spoke normally again. "Do you still want to show me these things?"

He was backing away now, stumbling over the abandoned coil of rope, turning to make his escape – until he collided suddenly with Remuil. He froze, looking up apprehensively.

"Is there a problem here, Jako?" asked the captain, his voice deadly soft. Immediately, Jako straightened, his expression becoming nonchalant. "Not at all, captain," he said.

"That is well," Remuil replied, his eyes not wavering from Jako's. "Let it remain so."

Jako nodded and left with a final, fearful glance at Tíniel. Remuil bent and picked up the rope with his burned hands. He tugged at it, and with a jerk it became unstuck. He handed it to Tíniel.

"I did not need your help," she said, not talking about the rope. "It is not the only time this happens. But I think for Jako it is... last time."

The captain shrugged. "Perhaps I was helping poor, superstitious Jako. You may put away your knife now. You are quite out of danger."

Tíniel rolled her eyes, put the knife back into the sheath on her back and pulled at the rope until it was tight enough. She secured it around a post, aware of Remuil's eyes on her. His hearing was excellent, she knew. Had he heard the tale she'd told Jako? Granted, it was an exageration of truth. But it was true that she was, in essence, cursed, and that anyone who came to love her would suffer for it. Doomed to become a _khaviga_ … She inhaled sharply. It felt like an age since she had thought of that word.

Remuil pointed no accusing fingers, though. Perhaps he did not suspect. Or perhaps he did and was saying nothing – though if this was so, he was putting the _Haedannen_ in danger. But Remuil was different to the rest of the men; he didn't see things the way they did, and he was almost otherworldly in the way he carried himself.

"Why we are doing this, captain?" she asked, gesturing to the ship.

Remuil smiled. "I cannot pretend to know what you mean," he replied. Tíniel walked to the side of the ship, and looked down at the swirling water, leaning her elbows on the railing.

"Other ships, they are not like us."

"We are not pirates."

"But why?" she asked again. The _Haedannen_ was a special ship. She was shaped and built like a corsair dromond, and she flew black sails too. But it was all a guise. The black sails allowed the _Haedannen_ to get closer to corsairs than would be possible otherwise. And when they were close enough, they attacked. The pirates of the City of Corsairs attacked merchant ships and raided coastal villages to gain their profit. The crew of Remuil's ship attacked the pirates, taking back the goods and selling them back to their owners at a price that profited both parties.

It was good; Tíniel felt a spark of triumph every time she knocked a pirate unconscious – it was Remuil's law that they did not kill – and was satisfied each time she saw the gratefulness of the merchants when their products were returned to them. But the _Haedannen_ was despised by all the corsairs. That was why they had to avoid the City unless necessity called them there, and why they often left port at night.

"It is often easier to do something bad," said Remuil, "or not to bother doing something good. But it is always better to do the good thing."

"You could go to live alone, away from all people of the world, and be doing no bad things," Tíniel said.

"There is no place on land safe from the eyes of all the people of the world. This I know," he said, his voice shadowed with some dark memory. "But the sea… the sea calls to me, draws me to itself. At sea, I can be nearer the place that I once called home. And... it is an excellent place to hide."

She looked up at him, somewhat surprised. "You are hiding?"

He forgave her the question. "As are you. As is Mahaya, and Harûk, Grimbold and Odimba... even Jako."

"There are places that are better to – to hiding, than place where we are calling to all these corsairs, 'Look at us! We steal your money! Please come to kill us now!'"

Remuil laughed at her impression. "Why are you still here then," he asked, "if you know there are better places to run to?"

Tíniel thought for a moment. He was right, of course. The sea, vast and unending, was a good place to escape to. Land was not so safe. But that was not all. "I do not feel so… evil, if this is the good word, when I am here," she said. "I am doing some things good, like you say. Sometimes I think I maybe am not bad person. To fight, it helps me to think this."

Remuil nodded, staring out at the ocean. "There is a greater Enemy," he said softly. "Here, when we fight pirates, we are fighting his allies, for this they are, or they soon will be. So, you see, we are still fighting in the same war as the rest of the world, but on a forgotten front. We fight the same shadow that we fought long ago, in a war that began before memory, but still has not ended."

Tíniel did not understand him, but somehow it seemed he was talking not to her, but himself. She turned back to the water. "It is not a war that is real," she said.

He looked down at her. "Why not?"

"We do not kill," she said simply. For a moment, Remuil studied her face. She dropped her gaze, so she felt less like he was reading her mind.

At last, he sighed and shook his head. "Prepare for the battle," he said. "We will be upon them soon." With that, he turned and walked away, singing one of his strange songs.

* * *

Tíniel climbed a way up the rigging near Harûk to better see the pirates in the light of the setting sun. They were close enough now that she could hear them shouting, bellowing curses and banging their weapons on the side of the ship. The _Haedannen_ was gaining rapidly, even without men on the oars.

Now she could see the men. A good number of them were swaying where they stood, but not in rhythm with the movement of the ship. Tíniel looked over at Harûk. "Look at them," she laughed. "They are drinking too many of rum!"

Harûk laughed too. "We say they are _drunk_ ," he said. "A useful phrase in our part of the world. But you are right, Tíniel; it will be an easy fight today!"

At last they drew alongside the dromond. The men on the _Haedannen_ threw ropes with grappling hooks on the end onto the other ship and pulled them tight when they caught. As soon as the ships were bound together, they boarded, brandishing their weapons.

The crew of the _Haedannen_ was outnumbered, but that did not hinder them. Tíniel paused on the edge of the battle, watching as Remuil wielded his long blade, effortlessly manoeuvring through the pirates with ease and a strange grace. The others fought with less elegance, but more zeal. None of them killed or seriously maimed their opponents, but instead managed to hit them hard enough on the head to ensure they were safely unconscious.

Tíniel looked past Remuil and saw Mahaya fighting a pirate, parrying his sword stroke for stroke easily. But behind him, two other men were creeping up, weapons ready, seemingly waiting for the right moment to ambush Mahaya. Tíniel vaulted onto the dromond and dodged through the fighting men until she was only a short distance from Mahaya and his opponent. Without pausing, she drew her curved sword and thrust it in front of Mahaya's neck, just as the first pirate – the shorter one – brought down his blade. Their weapons clashed with a resounding clang, and the pirate, thwarted and snarling, turned on her.

He swung his sword around, but she blocked it easily, simultaneously stepping closer to him to cramp his movements. He stepped back unsteadily, thrusting, but she dodged and leapt forwards again so she was beside him. Before he could react, she dropped into a crouch and swept one of her legs around, so she caught him in the back of his knees. His feet went flying and he landed on his back with a dull thud. Quickly, Tíniel hit him hard in the temple with the hilt of her sword, knocking him out cold. It was over in a matter of seconds.

She went to straighten up but was forced to duck again immediately when the second pirate, the ugly one, swung his sword at her. It whistled mere inches from her head, and she danced back a few steps, regarding the pirate warily. This one appeared to be comparatively sober. He leered at her, and she balked; his face and neck were a mass of purple, criss-crossed scars.

Tíniel stepped forward to meet him. Their blades now moved at a faster rate; she blocked, thrusted, parried and swung at him, trying to find a pattern in his attack. The soldiers of Gondor all fought with similar technique, as though they had all been taught by the same master; pirates were harder to read, for each fought differently.

He was forcing her back. She manoeuvred so she was backing up the steps to the forecastle, giving her the higher ground. She rained down blows on his left, where he was weaker, but he too increased his attack. He thrust, and she deflected, then thrust herself. She had expected him to block it, but instead he dodged. Tíniel overbalanced, flailing her arms wildly to regain her position on the step, but she was not quick enough; the pirate swung at her, and the sword cut her arm.

She gritted her teeth and swapped her sword to her left hand. Hours of ruthless training with her father when she was a child had ensured she was as good with her left as her right, and she thanked him silently. She was at the top of the stairs now, still being driven back. But the ugly pirate's pattern was growing more obvious: left, right, right, thrust. She parried, growing more confident and matching his strokes. Thrust, left, right, low right. He was tiring. Right, thrust, left, right… this time she feinted to the left. He moved to block it, but at the last moment, Tíniel pulled her sword back at the last moment, and with a flick of her wrist, sent his sword spinning across the deck.

She stood, the tip of her sword at his throat. "You are not winning today, pirate," she said. He stared at her resentfully, out of breath.

"Only today, pretty," he growled. She looked back at him. One of his eyes was white, covered by a scar that continued onto his forehead. Tíniel stepped closer to him, now pressing her sword to his neck.

"Maybe," she said. "But today is not finished yet." She drew back her sword. His eyes widened, and she hit him in the head as hard as she could. His good eye rolled back in his head, and he fell unconscious to the forecastle deck. When she made her way back down to the main deck, the fighting had finished. The men were loading the pirates' loot off the dromond and onto the _Haedannen_.

"Good haul!" Harûk called, lifting a wooden chest. "It will bring a good profit in port."

Tíniel looked about. Harûk was right; there were numerous chests, barrels and rolls of dyed cloth on the deck. She wondered how many merchant ships were missing their cargo.

Mahaya came up beside her and handed her an axe, identical to the one he held in his hands. "Shall we do the honours?" he asked.

She shrugged. " _Honours_? I don't know this word. But I will help."

They made their way to the main mast. Tíniel positioned herself on the opposite side to Mahaya, and they began to chop. They fell into a rhythm. Tíniel's arm ached. As they worked, the other men took the pirate's weapons and threw them overboard, keeping the ones of good make for the _Haedannen_. It was a good plan, practised and perfected for years by Remuil. They took the goods to return to their owners and wrecked the ship enough that the corsairs would have to go immediately to land. It would be a time before this ship got back out to sea.

"Ahoy!" Mahaya cried suddenly. She leapt back from the mast and watched triumphantly as it creaked ominously, teetered, and toppled with a crash. The dromond listed heavily to one side, and began taking water. There were cheers as the black sails settled, then Remuil cried: "Enough now! Back to the ship! Cut them loose and leave them to clean up after they wake!"

There was laughter. The crew jumped back onto the _Haedannen_ , cutting the ropes loose and pushing away the other ship. Harûk and Grimbold heaved the final chest on board, and when they put it down, Harûk crouched beside it.

"Let us open it," he said. He pushed back the lid. Inside was a pile of carefully stowed silk dresses. Harûk drew one out reverently, then looked over at Tíniel.

"One for our very own beauty?" he grinned. Tíniel shrugged, hiding her own grin.

"I think that Grimbold will not wear it," she replied. The men roared with laughter, and Mahaya shouted from the stern castle deck.

"Come now, you old women! Work now, look later!"

There was good natured grumbling as the men dispersed. Tíniel was handing the rolls of fabric down into the hold when Mahaya came up beside her.

"I did not thank you," he said.

"For why?" she asked.

"For what," he corrected. "For saving me on that ship. I like my head where it is. It does nicely."

She shrugged. "Maybe another time it is for you to save my head."

That night, Tíniel lay in her hammock and listened to the snores of the others. Remuil was right: doing good was the right thing to do. And the sea paid her back. It provided a refuge, a place where she was accepted with no questions.

Almost like a new beginning.

* * *

 **She seems happy, but we know what that means... Drama! Strife! Angst! Inconveniently righteous Gondorians! All are to come in Chapter 4. I'll see you there.**

 **S**


	4. Capture

**4 — CAPTURE**

* * *

Tíniel cast the dice.

"Two and five," she said. "That makes... fourteen points." Mahaya nodded and marked it on the tally. Tíniel passed the dice to Grimbold.

Two weeks had passed since their last encounter with corsairs. They had sold their goods in port, restocked on provisions and cast back out to sea. The scar on Tíniel's arm had scabbed over now, and it itched – almost as much as the need to find more pirates before long. The inactivity wore at her and the rest of the crew, so instead they spent their time playing foolish dice games to no end.

Grimbold rolled. "Two and two," he said. "A double! That's… that is…"

Harûk swept the dice up off the small, round table, grinning. "Two and two is four, my friend," he said. "And three times a four makes one dozen. Did you never learn to count?"

Tíniel had to refrain from rolling her eyes. Everyone knew Grimbold had trouble with numbers, but he and Harûk seized every opportunity they could find to crow over the other.

Grimbold scowled. "There is no need," he said. "When I must count, I have my ten fingers."

"You are sure there are ten?" Harûk asked, a look of mock concern on his face. But it was replaced by his usual grin after he ducked Grimbold's swipe.

Mahaya looked up from his tally. "Say there are more than ten things you need to count. What then?"

"We use our eleven toes," said Tíniel, straight-faced. Grimbold glared at her, and she turned to Harûk. "Why you do not play? You are waiting for somebody?"

Harûk rolled. "Two and six. Eight points." He passed them to Mahaya. "As usual, Grimbold, you are wrong. There are many things to count out here. Ships, pirates, barrels of loot, days…"

"No," Grimbold said. "There is need for little counting. But sometimes it is for the better when things are not counted… that is why the _Haedannen_ is a good ship. We only count the things that do not matter."

There was a brief silence while Mahaya rolled and tallied his score. Tíniel wondered what things Grimbold didn't want counted. A thought rose in her mind, of what the prophecy had counted out for her. She pushed it down.

Mahaya passed the dice to Tíniel. "I figure Remuil has something to do with it," he said. "Making the _Haedannen_ a… a safe place for us. He is different somehow, do you not think? Not quite as human as us. But I suppose it's not our business."

She rolled a three and a one. "Four," she said. "This ship… it is belong to him, yes?" Mahaya nodded, and she asked, "How he did make crew? How he did find some people who need a place, a safe place?"

"You mean why did he choose people like us, not just any pirates off the City streets?" said Grimbold. "Well… I think he did not so much find us, as we found him."

"I remember before… the _Haedannen_ , I was in the City," said Mahaya softly, his eyes far away. "I spent all my days drinking. Remuil came into the tavern one day, and he asked if I was looking for work. He just… knew."

Grimbold rolled a four and a three, then frowning furiously, his lips moving silently, he added the total. He looked up at them. "Fourteen," he said nonchalantly, passing the dice to Harûk who, for once, hid his grin.

"I have made mistakes enough," he said. "But all you of the ship's crew, you do not see my past when you look at me. If you did… I can say with truth that you would none of you want to come near me."

"The same can be said on my behalf," said Grimbold.

"And mine," Mahaya added with a grim smile.

"I make no mistake in my life," Tíniel said. The prophecy remained unfulfilled. She'd done nothing wrong.

"Really?" said Harûk dryly. "And yet you had a team of highly-trained assassins after you when you came to us. Surely something there could have been handled _slightly_ better…"

She shrugged. If these men knew why she was being pursued, they would not wish to befriend her. They would throw her off the ship. Drown her. Cut her throat. It was what someone like her deserved. But she had not yet become what Akhund had predicted.

"All of us have made mistakes," Mahaya said. "Even Remuil."

Grimbold snorted. "Look at him," he said. "Him and his mysterious blue eyes and his shining black hair... Have you ever seen such a perfect man? Someone like him could do nothing _really_ bad."

"Are you in love with him?" Harûk asked incredulously.

"Maybe he's not _bad_ , exactly," Mahaya said. "But when he gets that shadowed look on his face, you can tell he is in pain."

"I cannot tell any emotion from him," Grimbold said dismissively. "He is as unreadable as a book." Mahaya, Harûk and Tíniel shot him a strange look. "What?" he said defensively. "I can't read!"

"He's always singing those songs of his," Harûk said thoughtfully. "You'd think that someone who sings that beautifully cannot be evil."

Mahaya sighed. "Do you need to be evil to be running from your past? A coward… perhaps. I think I am. But not evil."

Thoughts sprung again to Tíniel's mind of her _bamyë_. She could have faced her death, instead of running from it like a coward. And yet the logic was twisted: the prophecy was causing itself to come true. Nothing but a threat of betrayal had merited her death sentence.

Harûk had finished his turn, and Mahaya laid the tally on the table.

"The scores are as follows," he announced. "Harûk, four-and-fifty. Tíniel, nine-and-fifty. Grimbold, one-and-sixty… and," he finished with relish, "me on eight-and-sixty."

"You cheated," Harûk said accusingly. "You changed your score."

Mahaya shrugged. "You may check the tally if you wish."

Tíniel sighed and got to her feet. Grimbold snatched the paper from Mahaya's hand and consulted it closely. He threw it down with disgust. "How is it you always win a game of chance, Mahaya?" he said.

"You are right," said Harûk. "We will make the game fair; next time, you can tally." Grimbold opened his mouth to reply, frowning, but he was interrupted by a cry.

"Ship! Black sails, to the South-West!"

Tíniel moved quickly to the starboard rail and gazed out to sea, her mood suddenly lightened. Here was something to distract her from melancholy thoughts: corsairs. Harûk came to stand beside her, loosening his sword in its scabbard.

"It is there," he said, pointing. She squinted, but the sun's reflection on the water made it difficult to see. After a moment she saw something – but not in the direction Harûk had said.

"I see it!" she said. Harûk turned to look, but after a moment he shook his head. "Mine is better," he said.

Tíniel frowned. "What?"

"My… my speck, it is better."

Tíniel looked once again in the direction he'd pointed. He was right, there was something there, yet it did not seem to be one of the black-sailed dromonds. "What is _speck_ ," she asked, "and why is yours better?"

"A speck is something very small. And mine is better, because I saw it first."

"But mine is more big. Bigger."

"Mine is… not black."

"Mine is actually a _ship_."

"Mine's —"

"Would you two shut up?" Mahaya said, walking by with an armful of axes. "We have work to do. You can argue with the corsairs."

Harûk smirked at Tíniel and mouthed " _mine is better_ " before following Mahaya, who muttered "I saw that." Tíniel grinned.

* * *

The pirates hurled insults in a language Tíniel did not understand. They all had coal-black skin, marking them as men of Far Harad.

"We fought this scum four years ago," Mahaya said softly from her side. "That's when we found Harûk."

Tíniel glanced over at Harûk, standing with Grimbold a few yards away. He was silent, his lips pressed tightly together in a thin line. He stared straight ahead, as though he was trying not to see.

"He does not need to fight them. He should not," she said, but Mahaya shrugged.

"Someday we will all face our pasts," he said, handing her a grappling hook. "Today it is Harûk's turn." She took the coil of rope in one hand, weighing the hook in the other. The moment the ships drew close enough to each other, she threw. The hook caught on the first time, and Mahaya helped her pull it in and secure the rope.

She drew her sword, and Mahaya did likewise. "For Harûk," he said, and she nodded. "For Harûk." They went over.

These pirates were fierce fighters; it would be no easy battle. Tíniel ducked under a swipe, then snapped her elbow up, feeling the crunch as her opponent's nose broke. He cried out and bent over double, but she had no time to knock him unconscious.

The next man had an axe. Tíniel leapt back just as he swung it at her. It was difficult to defend against a heavy axe with a sword, but Tíniel had enough experience to know that her blade had a longer reach and better speed. She slashed with it now, drawing blood from a shallow gash in his stomach with the very tip. The man grunted but did not pause. She danced sideways out of the way of his next swing.

She had to avoid parrying with her sword, so she didn't break her arm. Before the pirate could bring his weapon back up, she kicked it out of his hands and rammed into him, her shoulder connecting with his belly. He stumbled backwards until his heels were over the top step of the staircase down to the hold. For a moment, he teetered, his arms swinging wildly as he tried to regain his balance, but it was futile. He fell backwards into the darkness, and Tíniel slammed the door behind him.

She whirled around, her sword at the ready, and saw Harûk.

He was unarmed, his arms pinned by two pirates, one either side of him. One of them held a knife to his throat. They seemed to be speaking to him, taunting him, but Harûk's face was like stone.

Tíniel moved quickly so she was behind them, then slowed, keeping low. She crept closer, close enough that she could hear their voices, closer still…

She suddenly surged up behind one of the pirates, smashing the hilt of her sword into the back of his skull. He slumped to the deck, and Harûk wrenched himself free of the other man's grasp. The knife was knocked from the pirate's hand, and Harûk flew at him, throwing violent, ceaseless punches. The pirate went down, his eyes rolling back into his head, but Harûk began to kick him. He did not stop until Tíniel put her hand on his shoulder. He turned, and she saw the tears in his eyes. She looked away quickly, giving her friend time to gather himself.

At last, Harûk's ragged breathing calmed. "He deserved it," he whispered, and they made their way together back to the ship.

There was not much cargo to unload from the dromond. Some polished mahogany furniture, a small box of strange, fine jewellery and a single wooden chest. Tíniel helped lift the furniture over as others half-destroyed the pirate ship. They finally pushed away, and she looked over at Harûk. He was watching the listing ship, gripping his retrieved sword tightly. She decided to let him be.

Mahaya was shutting the chest, and Tíniel approached him. "What is inside?" she asked.

"One thing, wrapped cleverly and hidden between sheets of silk," Mahaya replied "A black, glass sphere. It has a strange sort of beauty, alluring in a way… I would open the chest to show you, but Remuil insists we should not touch it."

She frowned, intrigued. "Perhaps it –"

"Ship! A ship, directly starboard! Remuil!"

Tíniel whirled to look behind her. Less than half a mile away, almost unnoticed in all the activity on board, was a ship. It looked to be a Northern ship, but not a trader. It was gaining on them fast.

"It's my speck," Harûk breathed, his hand going back to his sword.

"All hands on deck!" Remuil shouted, a note of panic in his voice. Somehow, he too had missed the ship. Some of the men moved to trim the sails, but the captain shook his head.

"We cannot outrun her," he said. "We will stand and fight. Defend the ship, but do not kill."

"But they are Northmen," Odimba called back. "Why must we fight? More likely than not that we helped them once."

Remuil shook his head again. "This ship is no merchant," he said, more softly this time. "She is a warship. And we are flying black sails." For a moment, nobody moved or spoke. Then Remuil drew his sword. "Fight well," he said.

The crew of the _Haedannen_ watched in silence with their weapons drawn as the ship drew near. Her crew was all white-skinned and dressed all alike in a strange fashion that was somehow familiar to Tíniel. She sucked in a breath as she counted how many of them there were; they had at least twice the number of men the _Haedannen_ did. Quickly, Tíniel took the almost-forgotten _vadi_ which had been draped around her shoulders, and wrapped it around her head and the lower half of her face in the fashion of her homeland. Mahaya looked sidelong at her.

"Just a… how do you say? A precaution," she explained.

Harûk gave a half-hearted grin. "She does not wish to scare these men away with her ugliness," he joked.

She looked back at the tall ship. The soldiers on it were looking down at them, their eyes filled with disgust. Some of them spat in the water.

"They hate us," she said quietly.

"They hate pirates," Mahaya replied, "and we fly black sails."

"So, they hate us for being what we are not," said Harûk. "Amusing, do you not think?"

"Is that not way of the world?" she answered.

The North-ship drew alongside the _Haedannen_ , and her men prepared to board. Tíniel gripped her sword tighter, and took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment. _Focus_ , she thought. It was a fight unlike any other she'd experienced, but she had no intention of backing down; that would be a betrayal. _Focus_.

"Fight well," said Mahaya. Tíniel opened her eyes.

The Northmen boarded, bellowing as they leapt onto the deck, their weapons brandished. One ran at Tíniel at once. She took a few steps back as he barrelled towards her to use his momentum against him, then began parrying. It was strange to fight completely defensively, but Remuil's warning not to kill echoed in her head. She deflected a thrust to her left, then parried again. The man she was fighting fought well, but she could match him easily. She could anticipate his attacks; he fought like a soldier of Gondor. She parried again, then twisted his sword with her own. He lost his hold and it clattered onto the deck. She kicked it away and found another opponent.

Gradually, as she fought, she registered the noise and confusion lessening around her. A second Northman joined the one she was fighting, then a third, almost surrounding her. Now she was moving faster, her sword a blur. She had to fight on three fronts, anticipating attacks from all sides. She stopped thinking, and her instincts kicked in; numbly, she thought of the convicted pirates she had seen in Northern ports, their rotting carcasses swinging from the end of ropes.

It seemed a shame somehow, not to kill when the lives of these men were all that stood between herself and freedom; while they lived, she would die. But she would not disobey Remuil's orders. She continued to fight defensively, blocking, parrying, feinting in one direction then twisting back the other to parry again.

Then suddenly, without warning, she felt a blinding pain in the back of her head. She stumbled forwards and was caught and pinned by two of the men, her sword falling to the deck. Dimly, she registered a fourth man who had been behind her, the one she'd disarmed earlier. He'd hit her from behind, with dishonour, and he had hit her hard; she had to blink hard several times before the bright lights faded and she could see again.

The only sound now came from Remuil, who was somehow, impossibly, holding off five men at once. He moved fluidly, with frightening grace that spoke of many battles fought. The rest of the crew was standing motionless and weapon-less, the Northmen's swords pointed at their throat. Mahaya was on his knees, pale-faced, dark blood pulsing from his shoulder.

"Remuil," Grimbold barked. For a fraction of a second, Remuil looked up, without pausing or losing his rhythm. He saw his crew, all disarmed and trapped, and Tíniel thought she saw his shoulders drop in defeat. But then he leapt cleanly back from the conflict and lay his sword before him on the deck, surveying the Northmen steadily, barely out of breath.

"Enough," he said.

They were shackled in iron chains and led roughly onto the North-ship. The Northmen went about the business of wrecking the _Haedannen_ , but not in the way that had been Remuil's practice for so long. This time, the ship would not float. Everything of value was taken, including the chests taken from the recently raided corsairs, and the timber of the boat was doused with oil.

Then they set it alight.

Sitting on the deck of the other ship with her hands chained behind her, Tíniel looked on bitterly as the flames spread, roaring up the black sails, consuming the deck and the masts, devouring the dromond that had been her home for months. She glanced over at Remuil, chained with the rest of them. The flames were reflected in his eyes as he silently watched his ship go down.

They pulled into port the next morning. It was a place Tíniel had never seen before, a small northern town, but she supposed it did not matter. It was as good a place to be hanged as any.

They were marched off the ship in a line, connected by the clinking chains at their wrists. Tíniel hated the chains; her arms hurt from being secured behind her all day and night, and her wrists chafed badly. The Northmen were not gentle, either; they pushed the crew of the _Haedannen_ along roughly, away from the bustling harbour, down a street, then through the doorway of a looming, two-storeyed stone building.

She could not help but flinch when she was pushed through the doorway. Never before had she been inside a solid, immovable building, though she had seen hundreds in the big city in Khand, and in the City of Corsairs. Two feet or so above her head was the heavy ceiling, nothing like the weightless material of a _patchi_. She shivered, thinking how little it would take for the ceiling to suddenly slide down and crush her to death. Who in the world would want to _live_ in a thing like this?

In the centre of the room, a man looked up from where he was writing something at a desk, and closely scrutinised the prisoners. Tíniel was suddenly glad for the _vadi_ still covering her face. At length, he turned to the guards.

"Have you found it?" he asked.

One of them shook his head. "We took everything from their ship – a box of silver trinkets, some mahogany, and a box filled with nought but rags. We searched their ship before we burned it but came up empty-handed."

The man at the table frowned. "You would have been wiser to tow the dromond back so it could be stripped," he said. "But regrets will save nothing now. Are you certain it was on these pirates' ship? Was there no other?"

"None, but another corsair's dromond that we followed from port. She had been stripped and half-wrecked, and her men all unconscious, when we came upon her. There was no sign of the palantír."

Another of the soldiers, standing to Tíniel's left, sighed. "The Steward will not be pleased," he said.

The man at the desk grimaced. "He will be furious," he said, then jerked his head towards the prisoners. "Lock them up."

They were led through a cold stone passageway lit by torches, passing heavy doors with little barred windows in them. They were called _cells_ , Tíniel remembered. Mahaya had told her of them; they were prisons, places that pirates were kept before they were hanged. She shivered.

Their hands were unbound and one by one they were pushed into a cell. "Enjoy your prison, pirate," one of the guards sneered as he pushed Remuil, the last in line, into the tiny space. Remuil did not reply, but he flinched when the door slammed shut behind them.

They huddled together in the dark, all nineteen of them. The silence grew, screaming all the things they were afraid to say but could not help thinking. Not even Harûk spoke. Tíniel rested her head back against the stone wall and closed her eyes, trying to escape the heavy feeling of dread, but it was useless. On the back of her eyelids danced images of bodies swinging gently from the ends of ropes.

It was unjust that she would die like that, in shame and dishonour, as punishment for something that she was not. It was the second time in her life that she was about to die for doing something she hadn't done, but this time something whispered in the back of her mind: _it is better that you die now… better to die than to betray…_

She shook it away, opening her eyes again and trying to divert her thoughts. Her wrists hurt, from the shackles that had been placed on them before. And her head hurt; she wanted water. Remuil began to hum a song to break the silence, and his scarred, burned fingers began to twitch as though they were plucking the strings of a harp. It sounded like a lament.

Mahaya had taken ill; his wound was bad, and infected. He shivered ceaselessly in the corner. What had the Northmen been speaking of before? She tried to think it through, to distract herself. They were searching for something, something that had been stolen. And they believed this thing had been on the _Haedannen_. But there had been nothing of value, nothing unusual in their cargo…

With a jolt, she remembered the black sphere that Mahaya had described to her, that Remuil had cautioned them against touching. The soldiers had not mentioned it… and that could only mean they had not found it.

She sat forwards. "Remuil," she began, cutting his song short. "These Northmen, they are finding something –"

"Hush," Remuil said quietly. She fell silent, and after a moment, he continued. "You are right, they are searching for something. But it is better that they do not find it, for they do not understand what it is, what it can do. If they use it, their minds could be corrupted, turned hopeless and twisted. In the Steward's hands, it could lead to the deaths of thousands of people."

She nodded, and though it was dark, she knew he saw it.

"What does it matter if it is dangerous?" Grimbold muttered, his voice empty, void of emotion. "We will be dead enough for it not to matter to us."

Silence, broken only by Mahaya's shivering and Remuil's dismal humming, fell again. Tíniel felt the absence of Harûk's sharp reply, but her friend sat silently beside her, his chin on his chest, almost as if he was sleeping. She knew he was not. Again, the shroud of dread settled on them all. Tíniel shut her eyes tightly, and tried not to dream.

* * *

It must have been the next morning when the cell doors opened again. None of them had been given food, water or blankets for the cold; the Northmen would not waste their precious resources on those marked to die.

She'd slept fitfully throughout the night, jerking awake at every small noise. Somehow it had seemed to her sacrilegious to spend her last few hours of life sleeping, but she could hardly help it, so she told herself it did not matter. Nothing she did now mattered.

She had begun to doze again when she heard voices outside the door.

"... and if we do not find the Steward's palantír, he will have them hanged with not a moment's thought."

She sat up straighter. It seemed the soldiers had still not found the thing for which they searched.

"They will be hanged, even if it is found," a second voice answered, lowering in volume as they grew closer to the door. "But I doubt they will yield to questioning."

"Yet we must try, or else we may find _our_ necks in the noose alongside theirs. I know not what this palantír does, but by the stars, it must be a mighty treasure for Lord Denethor to place such value upon it."

The door was opened, and two Northmen entered. One bore a torch, and its light dazzled Tíniel's eyes.

"Stand up," one of them ordered. They stood. The soldiers surveyed them critically, and the one who had not spoken spat at Grimbold.

"Thieves," he said, his voice laced with scorn. "That is what you are; that is what you have proven yourselves to be. But this time, you have stolen something of real worth. We know this thing was in your possession, and it will only be a matter of time before it is discovered. The question is only how difficult you will make it for yourselves."

He paused now and looked around at all of them. They each met his gaze unwaveringly. He glanced at his companion and continued.

"You have neither eaten nor drunk for almost two days, and you spend your nights here in the cold. We know you are hungry, and you wish for food, that you are cold and need blankets. One of you will die soon without medicine. These things will be given the moment we learn the location of the palantír, the thing we know you are hiding. So, who will save his friends?"

The soldier paused, but his question was met with silence. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. "Tell us, and you will have all the food you wish for. Are you not all hungry?"

Again, the cell was quiet. For a brief moment, the man closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were hard and cold.

"Take the smallest," he said to his companion, then turned on his heel and exited. The remaining soldier scanned the room briefly. His gaze landed on Tíniel.

A feeling of foreboding settled in her stomach as he came towards her and she shrank back into the wall, but then Harûk stepped into his path.

"No," he said, his voice hard. "You can take me instead."

The Northman wordlessly shoved Harûk aside and took hold of Tíniel's arm, pulling her out of the cell and away from her friends. She had to stumble along to keep up, half jogging and half being dragged, looking back to meet Harûk's frightened eyes. She caught sight of Remuil, his jaw clenched tightly as he watched her being taken. The guard's hands were too tight, but she hardly registered the pain. It hurt more when the cell door was slammed shut.

The soldier led her through the stone corridor until they reached another room, lit with torches in brackets on the wall. She was shoved onto the ground, and she landed on her hands and knees. Quickly, she got to her feet and turned to face the man, thanking her foresight in wearing her _vadi_.

He was joined by two more now, and they looked at her ominously. They knew they were in control, that they held all the power, and so did Tíniel; she would not be able to take them on alone. She took a deep breath, bracing for the worst. Her father's voice ran through her mind. _War is a game of the mind, not just of the body_ , he had told her. _Fight a strong man on both fronts and he may be overcome_.

Now, as the men faced her, she was calm. One of them spoke.

"Where is the palantír?" he asked, his tone brooking no argument. She did not reply, and he stepped towards her, looming. "Answer the question, boy, or you will regret it. Where is it hidden?"

She almost had to smile; yet another man, thinking she was a boy. But still, she said nothing.

Something changed in the soldier's face. He grimaced for a moment, then hit her hard across the face. She hadn't seen it coming; her head snapped back, and she fell to her knees with a gasp. Blinding pain flooded her mind. She could see nothing, hear nothing. He hit her again, and she tasted blood as she bit her tongue. She could feel her cheekbone throbbing, it was all she could feel, and his fist smashed into it again. She grunted in pain, falling to her hands and knees and spitting blood onto the floor. Her _vadi_ had come loose.

The Northman who had hit her knelt beside her now. "Where is the palantír?" he breathed in her ear. "Tell us, or more will come." She shook her head, then coughed as he drove his knee into her ribs, then kicked her. The blows began merging into one another, punctuated by more questions that she did not answer, becoming part of a chain that looped around and around. She could hardly think. Her head felt heavy, like it was dragging her neck and her torso and the rest of her body to the ground. She wanted to sleep, but there was too much pain…

Tíniel barely registered a fourth man entering the room. A cut had opened next to her eye, and blood was dripping down. She remembered when she and Tcharum were children, seven years old, fighting with real swords for the first time. He'd cut her on her shoulder, and she'd cried, half from pain and half because she'd been beaten. Her father, the Khondyë, had watched her, but offered no comfort. _Real warriors do not cry_ , he'd said. _The variag do not cry_ … She still had the scar. The pain came in waves without respite.

"Is there any new information?" the newcomer asked. The soldier next to her stepped away, and the blows ceased. She heard him dimly, through the fog in her ears.

"We have tried all but killing them. Beating has not prevailed even upon this, the smallest of the crew."

She was aware of the newcomer approaching, and she shut her eyes briefly, gathering her resolve. The _variag_ of Khand did not show weakness. She pushed herself to her knees, stifling a groan, then climbed to her feet.

The Northman stood before her, a full head and shoulders taller. She regarded him steadily with one eye, the other rapidly closing.

"He is but a boy," the man muttered, almost to himself, but then he spoke to her. "You have heard this thing we seek is of great importance. Deliver it to us, and you would be the saviour of a kingdom." He watched her, and she met his gaze in unwavering silence.

"Deliver it to us," he continued, more softly now, "and I will lift your death sentence. I will give you enough gold to give you a life for yourself, away from this place. You will never need to pirate or thieve again. Will you take my offer?"

Suddenly, she saw everything clearly. Her painful breaths came faster.

 _First for life, next for gold…_

No. She would die sooner than betray her friends, prophecy or no. No amount of gold would be enough to tempt her, and staying alive meant nothing if she was a _khaviga_.

"I do not take it," she said, her voice rasping. "My life is nothing. You do not know meaning of loyalty if you are asking me this."

The man was frozen in place, his eyes suddenly wide with horror. Tíniel did not understand what she'd said to make him like that, nor could she try through the pounding in her head and the awful pain in her chest. She did not resist as, with trembling hands, the man reached forwards and carefully removed her bloodied _vadi_ from her head, letting it drop to the floor. He took in her face, and her tightly braided hair, then he turned to face the other men.

"A woman," he said. "You beat a woman."

Now the three soldiers stared at her with widened eyes. Tíniel's sight began to spin, suddenly and violently, and she staggered to one side before regaining her balance, then cursing her show of weakness. She tried to focus on staying upright, but she was overwhelmed instead by a wave of relief – relief that she had not betrayed her friends, not for her life or for the promise of gold. The prophecy had reared its ugly head, but she'd won.

The fourth man, who seemed to be their leader, turned back to her, still speaking to the others. "We… we must treat her. It is the least… the least we can do."

The men were talking, but she could no longer hear them. She needed to lie down. Her head was pounding. The cut by her eye dripped blood. Everything hurt. Even breathing hurt. But she could not, she would not fall, not in front of these Northmen…

A fifth man burst into the room suddenly, panting.

"We found it, Captain!" he cried. "The palantír of your father – I mean, Lord Denethor – was in the chest of silks, hidden between them."

The leader, the captain, almost sagged with relief. "Prepare to leave this forsaken place," he said. He turned back for a moment and looked at Tíniel. "The girl will come with us back to Gondor."

Tíniel heard the word echoing in her head as though it had been shouted from a distance. _Gondor_. They were taking her to a nest of her enemies, the land of her people's persecutors. She was going to Gondor…

She lost consciousness at last.

* * *

 **A million thanks to my lovely reviewers. Every single one has made me smile!**

 **S**


	5. Minas Tirith

**5 — MINAS TIRITH**

* * *

It was dark when at last she woke. Tíniel's head throbbed with her heartbeat, and it was only after she had beaten down the pain that she remembered. She was going to Gondor.

She tried to sit up, panic rushing through her, but the ground lurched and she cried out in pain as she was thrown back. She was lying in a horse-drawn wagon, she realised. That was why it was dark, pitch black. She managed to claw herself to her knees despite the aching throughout her body and the spikes of pain in her midsection, and crawled to the door. She felt for a handle, but could not find one.

Tíniel drew in a shaking breath. She seemed to have escaped one kind of death only to face another. Out of the cooking pot and into the fire, as the old women of her _bamyë_ would have said, shaking their heads knowingly and smiling toothless smiles. Tíniel lay back down, pressing her palms to her forehead as though she could hold back the pain. If only she were home, with Tcharum and Borund, or back out at sea with Harûk and Mahaya. But instead, she was closer to their enemy than she'd ever imagined she would be.

She was not the first, of course; not the first of her tribe to be captured and taken to Gondor. Those who were taken had never been heard of again, testament to their courage and their loyalty – for there was but one thing that could be done to remain loyal if you were taken prisoner. Prisoners of the enemy who did not kill themselves would become traitors; this was the law. _Khaviga_. So, if she could not escape, she would have to die by her own hand. Out of the cooking pot and into the fire.

Hours later, the rattling and bumping stopped, and the doors were opened. It was night, and the sky was scattered with stars. A Northman, a guard, handed her a piece of bread – different to both the bread of Khand and the hard biscuit of the _Haedannen_ – and a flask of water. She nodded her thanks warily, but he simply shut the doors again.

She lost track of time; the hours in the darkness stretched and shrank, and infrequently Tíniel was supplied with glimpses of the world outside. Whenever the doors opened, she saw rolling plains of grass, the edge of a forest, fields of green dotted with little white and yellow flowers, towering purple mountains topped with white. Each sight took away her breath, and for the hours of travelling afterwards, she would sit in the wagon with her eyes closed, trying to remember the scene exactly as she had seen it. They became overwrought and dreamlike, until she hardly believed she'd seen them after all.

She had no idea how many days had passed while they travelled inland. She could hear the voices of many people outside the wagon, but it was the same guard who brought her food each day, and he never spoke. One afternoon, the doors opened, and a new Northman was there. He let her step out, to stretch her legs and breathe the air.

"Welcome to Minas Tirith," he said. Tíniel frowned, turned to take in her surroundings, and caught her breath.

At the present, their party was stopped on a vast plain, covered in waist-high grass. To her left, it seemed a cloud had touched the earth; a mist, she remembered it was called at sea. To her right were colossal white mountains, thousands of times larger than she had ever imagined possible. For a moment she wondered if she had somehow been pulled into one of Akhund's magical stories.

The line of mountains stretched into the distance like beads threaded on a string, beginning just before Tíniel's eyes. The last mountain before her was shadowed with deep purple. A shoulder of this mountain jutted out, and around it was built a city.

She gazed at it in wonder. So, this was Minas Tirith: it climbed, first a wall of black, then six more circles of white stone, up the mountain. High above the seventh wall rose a pearly white tower, its pinnacle glittering in the afternoon sun as though it were made of diamond. White banners fluttered in the breeze. It was beautiful. A beautiful place to die.

She retreated back into the darkness of the wagon with this thought for the last hour of the journey. Upon reaching the gate, her new guard – kinder than the previous one – told her to ride up front next to him, so she could see the city. She climbed up beside him and took in the sight, wide eyed. It was unlike the City of Corsairs and the cities of Khand; though perhaps it was no more ancient, it possessed a regal quality, a solemnity.

They passed through enormous iron gates into the first circle of the city. The houses were all built of white stone, though some were dirty and others in need of repair. The wagons wound up the cobbled streets and Tíniel looked at the people. The women all wore skirts that reached their ankles, just as Harûk had told her all Northern women did. The children stopped their games and looked on curiously as they passed, and the men paused in their work. Every single one of them was white-skinned.

At length, they reached a second wall and a second gate, guarded by men in black and white armour.

"Here is the Second Circle," the guard next to her – Hirgon, she thought his name was – said. "It is one hundred foot higher than the last. Another one hundred feet is the Third Circle, and then the Fourth, and so on. Do you see how this gate is at the far Northern side of the city? The gate to the next circle is at the Southern end, so we must pass through that spur of rock to reach it."

"Why?" she asked. It was a foolish idea to have built the gates so far apart. It would mean longer travel if someone wanted to go between the levels.

"So that if Minas Tirith is attacked, the enemies must go further to breach each level, and each individual circle can be fortified against them. It is not for nothing that this is named the guard city of Gondor."

Tíniel did not reply. If her people were attacked, they could move easily and swiftly. It would not be the same in a city, she supposed.

"But besides that, it is not often that people travel between circles," Hirgon continued. "Those of the lowest circle are the poorest. Those who live in this circle are a little better off. And thus it continues."

They passed again through a tunnel in the great spur of rock, then through another gate. As they climbed through the city, the buildings grew finer; few, and then none were in need of repair; outside some, flowers were growing in pots. Now some of the men called greetings to the soldiers. The children – better fed and better dressed – continued with their games. Tíniel still pretended not to see their stares.

At last, the wagon ground to a halt in the Sixth Circle. Hirgon helped Tíniel down from where she sat. Everything still hurt; she knew she must have broken at least two of her ribs. They were stopped on a street of tall, white buildings – everything in Minas Tirith seemed to be white – that she supposed must be where people lived. Like a _patchi_ , but one that could not be moved.

"This is where the Captain will meet us," said one of the soldiers. He nodded towards her and continued. "He will deal with this. Rest tonight and be back at your usual posts come sunrise." The guards mumbled assent.

Suddenly, the tall Captain himself appeared. All the guards stood a little straighter, and despite herself, Tíniel did too. The Captain's eyes met hers for a moment, but he quickly looked away and addressed the soldier who had been showing her the city.

"Why is she not restrained?" he asked.

Hirgon frowned. "Is she... a prisoner, Captain?"

The Captain hesitated, but then ignored the question. "You are all dismissed. Go home to your wives!"

There was a collective rumble of approval and the men began to disperse, saluting the Captain as they left. Hirgon smiled wryly and nodded at her.

"Good luck to you, pirate-lady," he said. She returned the nod, and he left, leaving her alone with the Captain, who looked as though he was reluctant to speak. She regarded him silently, not wishing to make it any easier for him. Finally, he looked up at her; he was handsome for a Northman, she supposed, tall and broad and strong. He motioned for her to follow him, and she fell into step beside him.

"What is your name?" he asked her.

She wondered which one he wanted. "Tíniel."

He looked sidelong at her, frowning. "How did you come to have a name in the Elvish tongue?"

"It was given to me." She wondered what language this Elvish tongue was. The language of Remuil? A tongue of the North?

"It means 'she who is silent,'" said the Captain. She did not reply. After a moment, he stopped walking and turned to face her.

"I am sorry," he said. "For what my men did to you. Had they known you were a woman…" he shook his head. "I hope you know it was a mistake."

"Mistake?" she said, a spark of anger rising in her. "Maybe, Captain, it is that your men chose a woman by a mistake. But they chose smallest among all of us on purpose." The Captain's brow began to furrow, and he drew breath to speak, but she cut him off. "You think it is noble to say that you are feeling sorry to... to hit me. But it is never noble to hurt the weak!"

"We do not _prey_ on the weak! Minas Tirith, Gondor, is the _defender_ of the weak!"

Tíniel remembered with incredulous fury the raids that Gondor had made on her tribe for as long as she could remember – the murdered women and men, the empty-eyed orphans.

"You are liar!" she shouted. Two women on the other side of the street looked up, startled. The Captain saw them and roughly took her arm, pulling her down the street again.

"What would you know, pirate?" he muttered, his low voice enraged. "What would _you_ , a thief from the City of Corsairs, know of the ways of Gondor?"

Tíniel yanked her arm from his grip and stopped walking again. "You do not know who I am," she hissed. He stopped too, and they glared at each other. Anger boiled in Tíniel, and she had no inclination to quash it.

At last, the Captain looked away. He sighed. "I did not bring you here to argue over things we will never agree on," he said. They began walking again.

"Then why am I here?" she asked, her voice still resentful. "You could leave me in City of Corsairs to die with my friends. But you bring me here, to die alone."

He glanced down at her. "You need not die," he said. She smiled humourlessly. So, he had no idea of honour or loyalty; he did not know what was required of her.

They continued in silence, neither wishing to speak to the other, until they came to a stone arch. Within were more buildings of white stone, and a green garden.

"The Houses of Healing," said the Captain, and led her through. He opened a door and beckoned for her to enter, but she stopped short.

He very nearly rolled his eyes. "We must go in, Silent Woman," he said.

"I will not."

"The Healers are inside. _We_ need to go inside. To see the Healers. Inside."

She ignored his sarcasm. "I don't need to go inside. I am better already."

The Captain sighed. "Please?"

She looked at him, and beneath the coldness in her black eyes, he detected a hint of uncertainty. "They... they will fall on me."

"What?"

"Stones, they will fall on me if I go in."

For a second, he stared at her incredulously. Then he shook his head, deciding not to pursue the topic. "I will bring someone out."

The woman was named Anita. She had glossy, dark hair and sharp blue eyes, and was wearing a grey dress which reached the ground. She regarded Tíniel warily but did not object when the Captain asked her to examine her. She prodded all over, feeling Tíniel's arms, legs, head, face and ribs. When she felt the right rib cage, Tíniel gritted her teeth and suppressed a grunt of pain. At last, Anita stepped back.

"Two broken ribs. Nothing other is seriously injured, just badly bruised. The cuts on your face should leave no scars, and your eye should open up after a day or two."

"Thank you," the Captain said.

"If it is not too forward to ask… what happened?" Anita said. The Captain hesitated, looking at Tíniel.

"I got hurt," Tíniel said flatly, holding his gaze, daring him to tell the truth. He scowled, but Anita snorted delicately.

"Really?" Anita said sarcastically. "Because I had a suspicion that that could have been the case."

"She fell over," the Captain said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away uncomfortably. Everyone present knew that he was lying.

"I could feel that your nose has been broken before, more than once," the Healer said, raising an eyebrow. "Was that from falling over too?"

Tíniel looked over at the woman, who smiled knowingly. Tíniel's lips twitched. "Perhaps," she replied. She turned back to the Captain and her smile faded. "Are you satisfied?"

He ignored her and turned to Anita. "What does she need?"

The Healer shrugged. "Rest. Time is all I can prescribe. Your ribs will continue to pain you, so move gently."

Tíniel nodded, but her mind was elsewhere. She did not plan to stay long enough to _rest_ in Minas Tirith.

The Captain thanked Anita again and they left, winding their way down one of the streets. Tíniel was lost, but she figured that if she needed to find her way out, she just needed to head downwards. At last they stopped in a street of tall houses, and the Captain led her to a door.

"You need to come in this time," he said, opening it.

She hesitated at length. "Why?" she asked, despising her cowardice.

He didn't answer but stepped inside, stretching his arms up until they touched the wooden ceiling. "Here. I will hold the roof, so it doesn't fall on your head."

She scowled at the laughter in his voice and, bracing herself, stepped inside. Immediately her heart began beating faster.

The Captain led her through a hall into a small room that had a hole in the wall. Inside the hole, a fire was burning. The people of Gondor must be stupid, thought Tíniel. Even children knew not to light fires inside.

"This is to be your home, at no cost to yourself," the Captain said.

Tíniel glanced around. She hated it. "You owe me nothing," she said bluntly. "Let me go."

He stared at her. "Would you rather I have you taken back to the City of Corsairs? Nought but the gallows await you there."

"So you kill my friends, but to me you give home to live in?"

He scowled. "They deserve nothing less."

She thought of Harûk, silent in the prison cell, and Mahaya, shivering as he sickened. "You liar! Maybe they are not good men, but they are trying to be, all of them! They never killed, and never they are taking anything that is not stolen already!"

He scoffed disbelievingly. "By the stars, can you not hear the lies coming out of your mouth? You're a _pirate!_ "

She shot him a deadly look. "I _never_ lie." He raised an eyebrow and she lowered her voice, breathing deeply to calm down. "Just let me go. Do not take me to City of Corsairs. Just let me leave this... this place."

The Captain laughed humourlessly and shook his head. "You think I would trust you, pirate? I won't have a criminal loose in Gondor on my account. You will stay here, where I can watch –" He was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door. The Captain got to his feet and went over, frowning. "Who is there?"

"One whom you love!" answered a male voice in falsetto. The Captain rolled his eyes as the door opened to reveal another man who was alike to him in looks and dress. "Faramir."

"Yes," said the man, stepping inside and shutting the door. "I saw you come in and I waited, but you weren't coming out. Father wants you."

"Then I must go, I suppose," the Captain said tiredly. "Did he tell you why?"

"Yes, for once," Faramir replied. "He has heard of your… guest, and wishes for an explanation. Don't keep him waiting. I can answer any other questions your, uh, visitor has if you like."

The Captain nodded shortly and began to leave, but as he reached the door, he turned and spoke. "Tíniel… should you have trouble, ask for me. My name is Boromir."

Tíniel was silent, refusing him any gratitude. He held her cold gaze for a moment, then shook his head and left, slamming the door. Tíniel winced, waiting for the roof to slip down and crush her. It didn't.

Faramir walked over and sat on one of the two chairs that were by a table. He gestured to the other. "Well that was fraught with drama," he said. "Will you sit?" She didn't trust him any more than the Captain, but slowly, she sank onto the chair.

He smiled. "My brother is a brave soldier and a good man," he said to her. "But he certainly does not guard his temper."

She made no reply. He regarded her steadily as he spoke again. "Will you tell me what happened?"

She hesitated for a moment, then said, "I am innocent of wrong, but your brother is making me prisoner here in the stone house."

Faramir frowned, trying to piece together what had happened. His eyes were drawn to her face, and momentarily they widened. "He didn't…" he paused. "Did Boromir do that to you?"

Tíniel gently touched the tip of her finger to her swollen eye. "One of his men. A week ago."

His eyes lit up with recognition. "You are one of the pirates," he said. "They... interrogated you. Then my brother found out you were a woman. Correct?"

"We are not pirates," she hissed. "Eighteen men are – are waiting for death now, innocent of what you white men think they are doing. Perhaps they are dead already. Their blood is on your hands!"

Faramir did not flinch. "Perhaps they are innocent. Perhaps not. But you will be interested to know that three days ago, the group of pirates that had stolen the seeing stone miraculously escaped their cell."

Tíniel stared at him, not allowing the hope that suddenly flared in her chest to show on her face. Remuil. It must have been him, he must have found a way to get them out.

"All of them?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"All save one, who succumbed to his wounds. He is dead."

"Mahaya," she whispered. Her shoulders dropped fractionally, and her eyes drifted shut.

Faramir watched her closely. "I am sorry," he said.

She looked up at him coldly, regaining her composure. "Don't be. It is your people that kill him."

There was a long silence, then he spoke again, changing the topic. "What is your name?"

"Tíniel."

"A Sindarin name? But certainly not an Elf, and with an accent I have never heard. Where did you come from, before you began pirating? Who were your people?"

Tíniel hesitated. Faramir, though he seemed harmless, was of Gondor. Gondor had persecuted her people since memory began. But then her caution abandoned her. She would either be dead or gone within the night; it mattered not what he thought of her.

"The name was given to me. We were _not_ pirates. And I have no people, for they are throwing me away many months ago."

He nodded. "A story for another time, perhaps. I suppose you have had a long day, strange Tíniel, so I will leave you in peace. Do you have any questions?"

She needed supplies for when she fled the city, she remembered. But she'd have to be subtle about it. "What am I to eat?" she asked.

Faramir got up, and Tíniel followed him into a second room. He began opening little doors in the walls, behind which were things like cups and knives for eating. Finally, behind one of the doors, he found a package.

"Good – here is some bread. Valar know how long it's been in here, but it'll do. Tomorrow, Boromir or I will arrange for some money, so you can buy food for yourself."

Tíniel frowned. "Money?"

"Surely you came across it in the City?"

"You mean gold?" she asked.

"Well… Perhaps I shall come back to help you tomorrow. I must leave now, but I will return in the morning. Until then?"

He phrased it as a question. She hesitated before answering; she could not lie, but she didn't want to alert him to her plans. "I do not need your help," she said instead.

He blinked but didn't comment. "Until tomorrow, then." He turned and left. Tíniel waited until she heard the door open and close, then let out a long, shaking breath, resting her forehead against the wall. She couldn't wait to be gone. She had no idea where she would go, but anywhere was better than Gondor.

* * *

Faramir hammered on his brother's door. He heard muttering, then footsteps approaching, then abruptly the door opened a few inches.

"What is the matter?" Boromir snapped.

Faramir frowned at the sharp tone, but then relaxed as he realised the reason. "Ingold is in there?"

Boromir glanced behind him into the room, then looked back at his brother. "Yes," he muttered.

"Good evening, Ingold!" Faramir called in a loud whisper. He heard a snort within the room. Faramir grinned, but then sobered when he saw his brother's stony face. "I am sorry. I will let you go back to him – but first I need to tell you something."

Boromir hesitated, then stepped outside his room and shut the door behind him. "What is it?"

"It's that woman, Tíniel…"

"Yes?"

"I think she means to flee the city tonight."

Boromir straightened immediately. "Why do you say that?"

"I asked whether I would see her tomorrow, and she avoided answering me."

Boromir relaxed again, sighing. "Faramir…"

"No, I know it is tenuous. It could be nothing. But I have a _feeling_ , brother. I saw something in her eyes."

Boromir pinched the bridge of his nose. "I just… I don't think that she… Faramir, you are imagining things again."

Faramir shook his head, frustrated. "No. Why do you not trust me? I _know_ she will try to leave. The question is, will _you_ allow her to get away?"

His brother glared at him. Faramir knew that Boromir wouldn't be able to stand a known criminal being let loose in the kingdom on his account, and used it to his advantage.

After a few seconds of indecision, Boromir groaned. "Give me two minutes," he said, turning back and opening his door.

"Is that all it takes?" Faramir asked innocently, earning a glare.

* * *

The brothers huddled in the shadows of the building across the street from Tíniel's new home. All was dark, cold and silent.

"If you are mistaken, brother, it is very much not appreciated," Boromir whispered.

Faramir pulled his cloak tighter around him to ward off the chill. "Wait and see," he replied.

At that moment, they heard a door softly click open. Faramir tensed, and felt his brother do the same. Across the street, a shadowy figure slipped out of the building and began to move away, clearly not realising she was being watched. Faramir and Boromir exchanged glances and set off after her.

Silently, they drew nearer and nearer. They were mere steps away, almost close enough to reach out and touch her cloak… Faramir couldn't help himself.

"What a lovely night for a moonlit walk," he said breezily. The effect was instantaneous. Without even turning to see who was behind her, Tíniel took off, sprinting away down the road, her footsteps echoing between the buildings.

"Idiot," Boromir snapped, and went after her.

Tíniel ran hard, darting down alleyways past the sleeping houses. She led them almost in a complete circle – probably without realising it, Faramir reflected – but even battered and in pain, she was devilishly fast.

"I'll cut her off," Boromir panted beside him, and he veered off on another path. Faramir pounded on, his lungs burning as he gasped for breath. He increased his speed, trying to keep her in sight, but somehow so did she, glancing over her shoulder to check –

Tíniel slammed headlong into Boromir's waiting arms and cried out when the pain stabbed through her torso. Quietly, pinning her arms, he forced her to walk the few yards to her door, then inside the house. Faramir pulled it shut behind them.

Boromir sat Tíniel down at the table. All three of them were still gasping for breath. Faramir lit a lamp, and as the wick sputtered to life, it revealed Tíniel glaring furiously.

"Let – me – go," she spat.

"No," Boromir replied calmly.

"We can't," Faramir said. "Besides, why would you –"

"It is not business of yours!" she cried, leaping to her feet. "I hate this place! I hate Gondor, and everything in it! And I _hate_ you, both of you!"

Boromir moved forward until he was standing directly before her, a full head and shoulders taller and a glower on his face. "And why, my lady, do you feel so? Or is that business barred to me too?"

Tíniel was not intimidated. She stared at the brothers, loathing in her eyes. "My people were many, once." She said, venom in her voice. "Seventeen thousand. Largest tribe. I will lead them when my father died. And now…" she shook her head, her voice growing in volume and passion. "Now thousand and thousand of men, women, children – _children –_ have been murdered without need. By Gondor."

Boromir and Faramir exchanged puzzled glances. Neither could believe the woman; however, it seemed clear that she wasn't lying.

"Who are your people?" Faramir asked softly.

Her black eyes met his. "Maruvikh tribe," she said softly, something in her seeming to break. "I was Tchakhura Makhyë of Khand. Now I am Tíniel. Tíniel of Nothing." With that, she turned and swiftly left the room. Faramir could hear her climbing the stairs.

For a moment, they sat there in silence. Then Boromir spoke.

"She is… curious."

Faramir nodded. "I agree. She isn't terribly likeable, but I keep trying to like her."

"So, she is Khandi," Boromir mused. "I have never spoken to anyone from Khand before now."

"Well, our peoples _are_ sworn enemies."

"Yes, but even when we've taken prisoners, they refuse to speak, and then they kill themselves. Some tradition to preserve honour, no doubt."

"Doubtless," said Faramir, staring reflectively at the table. Then, without warning, he leaped to his feet, the chair crashing to the ground behind him. "Boromir!" he said, his eyes wide with realisation. Upstairs, all was quiet. Boromir too recognised the meaning of what he had just said, and he led the way out of the room. Together, they flew up the stairs, taking them three at a time in their haste.

"Tíniel, wait!" Boromir cried. They reached the top and hurtled into the bedroom. She was sitting on the bed, a knife pointed toward her chest.

* * *

Tíniel stared at the knife, willing her hands to stop shaking. She felt alone, isolated; she wished Tcharum and Borund were there, or Mahaya and Harûk – anyone, to tell her to be brave. _Tcharand bamyë, tcharand khopyë._ Loyalty to people, loyalty to family. Where was hers?

Through the ringing in her ears, she became aware of other sounds. Someone called out her name, and two figures burst into the room. She hardly noticed them. It had to happen, and it had to be now. She had hesitated long enough.

But the knife still shook, and her heart beat louder and faster in her ears, knowing its life was soon to be cut short. Why did she have to die? Why her? Before, she had clung to life with her very fingertips. Now she was taking it and casting it away.

Her one relief was the prophecy. Now it, in all its horror, could never be fulfilled. She was free. She was swimming against the river of fate, even though Akhund had said she couldn't. Dying would be her final and ultimate act of resistance.

A tear slid down her cheek, and in her own achingly familiar language, she whispered: "I am not a _khaviga_." The knife stopped shaking. She squeezed her eyes shut, and took her last shuddering breath…

"No!" cried Boromir, and leaping forward he knocked the knife from her hands and gripped her wrists tightly in his own. It was the last straw.

She began sobbing uncontrollably, tears pouring from her eyes, and she leaned in until her head rested on his chest. Boromir glanced up uncomfortably at Faramir who shrugged, his eyes pained to see the broken girl. She was choking out words in a language neither of them could understand, but both could clearly see her despairing anguish.

Boromir hesitated, then folded his arms around her. "All is well," he murmured. "All is well." Gently, he lay her down in the bed and pulled the covers over her.

The brothers sat with her until morning. Both had a strange feeling, as though a heavy doom lay on that room. Neither understood what it was.

* * *

After Boromir lay her down on the bed, Tíniel fell into an exhausted sleep. Immediately, she began to dream.

 _She saw Akhund standing in an empty street of the City of Corsairs, his face lined with kindly wrinkles. His bright eyes twinkled._

 _"Journey North, for such is your fate…" he whispered. Then a great storm blew up, and the scene was obscured by swirling sand. When it settled, she saw Tcharum and Borund, standing together, their heads bowed as though they were grieving. Borund looked up, and across the desert, he stared straight into her soul._

 _"Promise me you will come back to us," he whispered._

 _She tried to answer him, but then from the East a darkness came, spreading insidiously across the sky. Tíniel looked down at her hands. On one finger, there was a golden ring, flawless in its beauty. She turned her hands over, so the palms faced upwards. They were covered in blood. She cried out, and a voice came from the sky._

 _Fleeing from hate and hiding from fear, it whispered. She saw herself galloping across the desert, away from her bamyë, her vadi fluttering in the wind behind her._

 _Betrayer of those who hold them most dear…_

 _"No," she whispered, trying to scrub the blood from her hands, shrinking from Borund's accusing eyes. "Please, no…"_

 _First for life…_

 _And suddenly she was in a small room. She saw a woman with dark skin and tightly braided hair sitting, a single tear trickling from her eye, a shaking knife pointed at her heart. It was knocked from her hands. She lived. She broke the sacred law of her country, but she lived. She betrayed everything she had once valued, but she lived._

 _And then a man spoke. "You and I could bring them together, you know," he said, his voice full of promise. "All of them." Something about that voice calmed her. Her breathing slowed._

A great weight settled on Tíniel's shoulders, and finally she woke from the dream, panting and drenched in sweat. The first grey light of dawn touched the sky outside.

The prophecy was being fulfilled.

* * *

 **Yeah, I know – this chapter is pretty late! I had to go to Sydney and life got on top of me... you all know how it is! Shout out to all of you, and let me take a sec to give some kudos to those of you reading this in your second language. I have more readers from Germany than I have from Australia and New Zealand combined. As the locals say: struth, Max!**

 **Readers old and new – please review, and see you soon!**

 **S**


	6. A Second Life

**6 — A SECOND LIFE**

* * *

They moved her into the citadel in the top circle of the city and gave her a room close to theirs, where they could watch over her more easily. But Tíniel didn't need to be watched; she did not move for days, lying curled up on her bed, her eyes void of expression and staring at nothing. Neither Boromir nor his brother could cajole her into eating or drinking. She seemed to neither hear nor see them.

When she could bring herself to feel, she felt hate; hate for herself, hate for her life. She had become what she despised most in the world, betrayed the people she loved most in the world, and by doing so had justified her own father's attempts to have her executed. She was a shell now, and nothing could lift her from her misery.

On the third day, Boromir brought the Healer Anita to her room.

"Nothing I say will wake her," he murmured worriedly as they stood above the unmoving woman. "It is as though she does not hear me. But she is awake. Her eyes are open."

"She is despairing," Anita said softly, pity in her eyes. "I will do what I can, lord. But I am trained only in the healing of physical wounds, not wounds so deep as this. I make no promises."

He nodded and left them together in the room, shutting the door behind him.

Anita watched Tíniel's slow breathing for another few moments, then moved briskly to the washstand. She lifted the basin of cold water to the bed and abruptly threw it over the girl, hoping it would provide the shock she needed.

It worked; Tíniel gasped and rolled onto her back, the cold yanking her from her daze. Anita put the basin down and sat on the soaked bed, lifting her into a sitting position. She was growing thinner and sickly from lack of food, and her dark eyes were red-rimmed.

"Do you remember me?" Anita asked gently. Tíniel's eyes met hers, and they showed a flicker of recognition. Anita smiled. "Well, I remember you. You're the one who keeps falling over." Tíniel didn't respond.

Still with her arm around the woman, Anita reached for a cup of water and held it to Tíniel's lips. She drank.

"I am here to help you," Anita said. "All you need is a new purpose, I think. You will die here if you cannot find your place." Still, Tíniel was silent. A tear slid down her brown cheek, and Anita brushed it away.

"Why do you weep?" she asked softly.

"I am no longer who I was before," Tíniel whispered, her voice hoarse from lack of use, her accent thicker than usual. "I do not wish to be who I am now."

"People change," Anita replied. "That's just the way of the world."

"Not like this."

"Then go back to who you were before."

Tíniel stared ahead, her face tear-streaked and desperate. "It is too late."

Anita took Tíniel's hand in her own and squeezed it. "What did you do before you came here?" she asked gently. "What did you love to do?"

"Fight," Tíniel answered after a pause. "I was a warrior. A great one."

"Good," Anita said, beginning to smile. "Then you shall regain your strength and be a warrior again. And you will be the best."

* * *

It took a good half hour to get Tíniel out of bed, but over the next few days, she finally began to live again. She rarely spoke to anyone, but she ate, drank and slept. Sometimes Boromir would sit with her and tell her stories of the battles he had seen; sometimes Faramir read to her things from _The Tragedy of Fëanor and his Sons_ and other books she didn't understand; but Anita spent the most time with her, forcing her to speak, occasionally even making her smile. She had a dress made for Tíniel in the Northern style. It was a dusty yellow-brown, the colour making her think of her old home. Although they encouraged her to go out more and explore during the day, she knew her door was still locked from the outside at night. She remained a prisoner here.

One day Anita came into her room, carrying a bundle. "A gift for you," she said. Tíniel unwrapped it carefully; it was a tunic in the same make as her old one from Khand, though the materials felt different, and red was slightly lighter. She looked up at Anita, puzzled. Her friend smiled.

"I had it made for you, because I burned your other one. It was torn and stiff with dirt. And it smelled."

Tíniel smiled. "I thank you, Anita. You have been kind."

"It is for you to wear when you fight," Anita said. "Lord Boromir said you could begin today."

Tíniel stared at her, hardly believing what she heard. Anita grinned. "Go on, then," she said. "Change into it. I'll take you to where they all train."

Swiftly, Tíniel changed into the tunic and followed Anita. It was infinitely more comfortable than the dress, but she still felt naked without her weapons.

"You look well," Anita said as they made their way to the training grounds.

"I feel better," Tíniel answered. "But I need this."

Anita smiled. "I hope they will be able to find an appropriate opponent for you."

Tíniel frowned, unsure of what she meant, but she was prevented from asking by a child that flew from the shadows and clung to Anita's dress. "Mama!" he cried. "Why are you back so soon?"

Anita laughed and peeled him off, planting a kiss on his head. "I am not come home yet, my darling. I am with my friend." She gestured to Tíniel and the child, who could not have seen more than five summers, stared open mouthed.

Anita glanced at her apologetically, but Tíniel smiled – really smiled – for the first time in weeks at his innocent curiosity.

"I will leave you now," Anita said, and pointed ahead. "The training grounds are right there, just around the corner. Enjoy yourself. Or… whatever it is you're supposed to do when you fight!"

* * *

When she arrived at the training grounds, Boromir was there, speaking with another man. He turned to greet her, and smiled when he saw her dressed in the tunic. "Good morning," he said. "Are you ready?"

"Of course," she replied. The man he had been talking to before eyed her curiously.

"Ingold, this is Tíniel," Boromir said. "Tíniel, Ingold. He is a member of the guard, and a close friend of mine."

Tíniel nodded politely and he bowed slightly in return. He was tall and handsome, with grey eyes like Boromir; he seemed like a serious man.

Tíniel turned back to Boromir. "Shall we?"

She followed the two men into a room whose walls were lined with weapons. "Choose one," Boromir told her. She scanned them; there were long swords, knives, daggers, bows and quivers full of arrows. There were shields of different shapes and sizes, and shirts of chain mail. There were spears, axes, maces, and… Tíniel inhaled sharply. In the bottom corner there was a collection of weapons that were familiar to her. Proper, curved swords and long, thin knives. Weapons from Khand.

She gestured to them. "What about these?"

"They belonged to prisoners we had taken," Boromir said. "Before they... you know. Choose as you will."

She picked out a curved sword with leather wrapped around the handle for grip. It was almost identical to the one she'd owned before and felt comforting in her hand. She secured it to her belt in the usual fashion, then picked out two long knives and fastened the scabbards to her back. She turned to Boromir, who was watching curiously. "I can keep these? Please?"

He shrugged. "Be my guest. No one else wants to use them."

"I don't understand how you can fight with such things," Ingold commented. "Curved swords are impractical."

She scowled a little at the man, then drew the sword and ran her finger along its edge. It needed sharpening.

"This is called _mithiri_ ," she said. "Fighting sword. And these," she gestured to the knives on her back, "are _vokhu_ , for close fighting. They are better than your stupid straight swords. Good on horse."

Ingold shrugged silently, and satisfied that he would not argue, Tíniel made her way back out into the sunlight. Boromir and Ingold followed her.

"Who am I to fight?" she asked.

"We have some boys who are training now," Boromir replied. "You could spar with them if you wish."

She shrugged her consent, and he led her to a group of young men. They ceased their conversation when they saw Boromir approach, and bowed their heads in respect.

"Greetings," he said to them. "My friend is searching for a sparring partner. Would one among you like to volunteer?"

There was a silence as the group looked at Tíniel, taking in her dark skin and, more importantly, her femininity. The silence stretched on until one, nudged by his friends, stepped forward and bowed. "It would be my honour, lady."

They stepped into the ring, and the group of boys gathered around to watch with Boromir and Ingold. Tíniel examined her opponent. He was about seventeen or eighteen, she supposed. Old enough to be strong, young enough to be inexperienced. He looked comfortable holding his sword, but not quite natural. He seemed nervous; probably because he was reluctant to fight a woman, she reasoned. Her brief time in the North had taught her that women here didn't behave like they did back home. She knew it was going to be a short, easy fight.

She touched her fist to her opposite shoulder in the Khandi salute. The boy frowned, confused.

"This is how we begin contest," she said, in mock seriousness. "You must salute your opponent, show your respect."

Uncomfortably, the youth bowed slightly. For a long moment, neither of them moved. He bounced on the balls of his feet, looking at her uncertainly. She stood still, relaxed, watching him with growing amusement. The young men muttered on the sideline.

"You should begin now," she said at last.

"P-Pardon, lady?"

"You must begin. Attack me."

He cleared his throat awkwardly at snickers from his friends watching. "Lady… you have not yet drawn your sword."

Tíniel sighed dramatically and drew her sword, relishing the ringing it made and holding it ready. "Does this make you feel better?"

The youth bristled at her mockery and finally stepped toward her, swinging his sword half-heartedly. In one movement, Tíniel brought her own sword down with force and smashed it out of his hands. As it clattered on the ground, the tip of her blade was already at his throat. His eyes widened in shock.

"Yield?" he gulped.

Tíniel turned to look at Boromir, who seemed surprised as well. "What is this word?" she asked.

"Yield? It... it means the fight is over. You have won."

Tíniel turned back to her opponent and for the briefest of moments, imagined cutting the boy's throat, imagined the hot blood over her fingers, imagined the gratified need for revenge... Breathing deeply, she removed her sword from his neck.

"Then I thank you," she said. "Be more careful when you fight woman, my friend." She picked his sword up off the ground and handed it to him, before stepping back and saluting. The small crowd around them erupted with cheers and laughter.

Tíniel grinned and turned to Boromir. "Will _you_ fight me now?" she asked.

The laughter turned to hushed mutters at her audacity in addressing the Captain. Even Ingold raised his eyebrows at her confidence. Boromir hesitated for a moment but then shrugged, returned her smile and stepped into the ring. The watchers fell silent.

Tíniel regarded him carefully. He had drawn his sword and returned her gaze. For him, the sword seemed an extension of his arm. He held it with familiarity and confidence, clearly a dangerous opponent. The only advantage she could see for herself was his size; he was significantly larger than her, but she hoped that meant he would be fractionally slower.

They circled each other. She waited for the attack.

It soon came; without warning, Boromir whipped his sword around and swung at her from above, using his height. She bent her knees slightly to take the impact, but wore it easily, using their proximity to cramp him, swinging left and then right. He parried smoothly both times and moved in closer, using her trick against her and forcing her to dance backwards as she swung.

He was gaining the upper hand, so she increased the rate of her strokes and began to move more fluidly, trying to use her speed as an advantage. For a few seconds, she was successful; the onlookers could see only a whirl of blades before them as the fight intensified. Boromir was driven back and forced to fight defensively. But Tíniel's arms, weakened and out of practice, soon grew heavy. The brute strength of Boromir's stroke was wearing her down. She faltered once, and he pressed into it. In moments, her sword spun away out of her hand, clattering to the ground. The fight had lasted less than two minutes.

She laughed, breathless but more exhilarated than she had felt in days.

Boromir grinned, panting too. "Do you yield?" he asked.

"If I must," she replied, and he sheathed his sword and clasped her hand.

"We must do this more often," he said.

"I have fought better. Next time, you will not be so lucky."

"You think that was luck? Ha! We shall see."

Boromir, Tíniel and Ingold moved off together, leaving the group of young men to discuss the fight between the Steward's son and the dark stranger in awed whispers.

* * *

The next day, Faramir took her riding outside the city. She suspected Anita had encouraged the brothers to keep her busy, but she didn't mind. It kept her mind away from things she did not wish to think of, and they were agreeable enough company.

They rode hard for half an hour, then came to a stop on the plain. Minas Tirith shone white behind them. Before them in the near distance, Tíniel could see a ruined city on a shining river. It was beautiful in a strange way, but she was not close enough to look properly.

"What is that place?" she asked.

"Osgiliath," Faramir replied, his voice wistful. "It was the most beautiful city in Gondor when times were better. Minas Tirith was only its watch-tower. Now it is empty."

"Did you see it before it fell to ruin?"

"No, but I have read about it."

"And beyond it?" she pointed to the dark shadow on the mountains on the horizon.

"Mordor and Minas Morgul," Faramir said. When she didn't recognise the name, he shook his head, his eyes troubled. "It is an evil land, inhabited only by dark creatures. We never venture into that place. Minas Morgul watches over it, and over us too."

She shivered suddenly and moved her eyes away. "And that mountain? Just beyond the river?"

"That is Emyn Arnen. Many years ago, it was the home of the Stewards of Gondor in Ithilien, my ancestors. Now we dwell in Minas Tirith. Gondor was once so much greater than you see it now; it stretched from Near Harad in the South to the Argonath in the North."

She frowned. "Argonath?"

"Enormous statues, wrought of stone in days forgotten. Count yourself lucky if you ever lay eyes on them!"

Tíniel stared at the mountain. Beyond it, and far beyond the mountains of Mordor, lay her homeland. Abruptly, she wheeled her horse around. "Let us return," she said.

When they got back, Tíniel found Anita waiting for her with Bergil, her son. Tíniel dropped onto one knee when she saw the little boy and beckoned him closer. Shyly, he obliged.

"Here, child," she said, holding her hands behind her back. "I have a gift for you."

Curious, Bergil tried to see what she was hiding, but she shook her head resolutely. "Hold out your hands," she instructed.

He did so, and swiftly Tíniel poked him in the ribs. The child shrieked with laughter and ran to hide behind Anita, who laughed as well.

"You have a way with children, Tíniel," she said. "Would you like to come home with me? I want you to meet my husband."

Anita's house was small, but comfortable. Inside, it smelled of baking bread and flowers. A tall man, dressed in the uniform of a guard, looked up when they came in, and stood when he saw Tíniel.

"Tíniel, my husband Beregond," Anita said. "Beregond, my mysterious stranger Tíniel."

Beregond bowed. "So, you are the warrior who disarms a man simply by smiling at him," he said. "It is an honour to meet you."

Tíniel laughed. "Not true," she said, "though I wish it was. I am glad to meet you too."

He smiled. "Will you stay to eat?"

"I think no," Tíniel said, glancing at Anita. She knew she still wasn't trusted by anyone here, and Boromir and Faramir would worry if she did not return before dark. More importantly, search parties consisting of soldiers would be sent out.

Her friend nodded. "I'm afraid I only brought her in so you two could meet; now Tíniel must leave. Say goodbye, Bergil."

The child approached Tíniel with his hands behind his back. "I have a present for you," he whispered, his eyes mischievous and delighted. She bent down so that she was on his level and frowned with exaggerated suspicion. "Are you sure?" she asked.

Bergil poked her in the ribs and, giggling excitedly, ran to stand beside Anita again. Tíniel couldn't help smiling; it seemed children were children, no matter what country they were raised in. She stood and nodded to Beregond. "Thank you," she said. "I hope to see you again."

"I look forward to it," he said, and she took her leave. She made her way up to the citadel, and when she reached the Great Hall, Boromir was waiting for her.

"Where were you?" he asked crossly, falling into step beside her.

"I was just with Anita. And I was out with Faramir all day, I thought he told you."

"My father wishes to speak with you," was all he said in reply.

Tíniel looked up at him, surprised. His face was tight. "The Steward? Why?"

"I do not know," Boromir replied. "But we will find out soon enough. He… he is a powerful man, Tíniel. Just make sure that he knows you know it."

Tíniel tried to wrap her mind around this last statement as they climbed the stairs to Denethor's private quarters. Boromir knocked three times on a heavy oak door, and it swung open from the inside to reveal a long, dark room. There was a large fire at the end, filling it with warmth, and a rectangular table covered in papers. At the head of the table, poring over a map, was the Steward.

He looked up as they entered, and his glittering eyes seemed to pierce Tíniel to her core. She recognised a formidable man, one used to having his way, one who understood this and accepted it. There was a sharp intelligence evident in his face, and also a sense of wisdom that somehow reminded her more of Faramir than Boromir.

"Father," said Boromir. "This is the lady Tíniel, as you requested. Lady, my father, Denethor the Second, Ruling Steward of Gondor."

Tíniel inclined her head. Denethor simply stared. There was a long silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire. At last, the Steward spoke. "An Elvish name," he said. "She Who Is Silent."

"So I have been told," Tíniel replied. "Sadly I do not live up to the name."

"I have heard tales of you, silent woman. You are trained in warfare. You dress like a man. You have little regard for the ways of our people."

"And you have no regard for ways of _my_ people."

Boromir stiffened at her response, but the Steward merely eyed her critically.

"I am not seeking a home in their city, as you seek shelter in ours, so beware what you say," he reprimanded her sharply. Then his voice grew softer again. "But... who are your people?"

She saw no point in concealing it. "Maruvikh tribe of Khand."

He raised an eyebrow. "I was under the impression that the people of Khand would sooner commit suicide than spend their days in Gondor. What happened in your case?"

He was pronouncing _Khand_ incorrectly, with a hard _k_ sound, but she ignored it. "This is true. But it is too late for me. I am _khaviga_."

He was silent for a moment, his eyes calculating. Then he picked up a map from the table and came to stand next to her, placing it down where she could see it.

"Perhaps you could help us then," he said, his voice calculating and smooth. "You will be free to come and go in Minas Tirith as you please, lady, if you show me the movements of the Khandi."

Tíniel stared at him, shocked. He was blackmailing her to betray her people, giving her a choice between betrayal or imprisonment. He clearly understood nothing of her world. Anger snapped inside her, and she couldn't stay silent. "You have attacked my tribe for decades, and now you want me to _help_ you?" she snapped.

Denethor looked mildly affronted by her tone. "Attacked for decades? No, we have simply been keeping the danger of invasion from the wild people in the East at bay."

"Invasion?" she almost spat, her voice growing in volume. "We are trapped! We have no places to go! My people are dying every day because of _you!_ "

He brushed aside her argument. "So far as I know, the people of Khand are tens, perhaps even hundreds of times more numerous than the people of Gondor. You could hardly have faced such a substantial threat from our infrequent raids. They were simply warnings, of a militant nature."

Tíniel shook her head, words failing her. Enough was enough; she turned on her heel, ready to storm out, but Boromir caught her arm.

"Tíniel, please – wait," he said gently, and gestured to the map. "Will you first explain to us what you mean?"

She hesitated, then met Denethor's gaze coldly. "For Boromir I will," she said tightly.

The Steward shrugged nonchalantly, and she bent over the map. She recognised nothing on it; it was covered in lines and squiggles.

"Boromir…" he leaned down next to her, and she turned to him. "Where is Minas Tirith on this map?"

"And now she cannot read…" she heard the Steward mutter sarcastically, but she ignored it.

"Here," Boromir said, pointing to a little pointed symbol.

"Then this is Mordor," she said, tracing her finger to the right to a long line of mountains. Then she moved it down, just south of Mordor. "And this is Khand."

"Yes."

"Well," she said, orienting herself on the map. Then she looked up. "In Khand, I am Tchakhura Makhyë. Tchakhura is my name. _Makhyë_ means I am daughter of king, and I will be king soon."

"Queen," Boromir muttered.

"In Khand, there are many great cities, and many tribes in desert. My _bamyë_ , this means my tribe, is the biggest among all tribes of Khand. This means my father, the King of my tribe, is very powerful."

Denethor leaned in, his expression no longer derisive but intrigued. "You speak of _tribes_?" he said slowly.

"My _bamyë_ , in my language, is called _Maruvikh._ This means, tribe that is furthest West. Westernmost tribe. Our lands are here, I think." She indicated a spot on the map. "The land of a tribe in our Law is sacred to them. The… how do you say," she turned to Boromir. "The edges? The lines?"

"The boundaries?" he suggested.

"Yes. The boundaries of a tribe's land are determined by Law, made thousands of years ago, and cannot be changed. So, when you are attacking us here," she indicated the spot on the map again, "we have nowhere to go. The tribe just to East of us, Kheviag _bamyë_ , will not allow us to seek refuge on their land. So, we are trapped in this small place, and left to bear raids of Gondor alone."

Both men were staring at the map, silent. Tíniel watched them, a strange feeling in her heart. Her _bamyë_ had suffered immensely and nearly halved in size because of Gondor's raids, but it seemed these men in fact had no idea of the actual damage they had caused, assuming each time that they attacked fresh forces rather than the same tribe. She felt almost hollow. Did the deaths of her people mean so little, so insignificant that even their killers thought they were a mistake?

Boromir turned to the Steward. "We have barely enough men to sustain our border defence in South Gondor. But if what Tíniel says is true, we could recall them and put them to use elsewhere."

The Steward nodded slowly. "Call a meeting to discuss this," he said. "We have the opportunity to recall troops. And you," he continued, turning to Tíniel. "You are dismissed."

She scowled and followed Boromir out of the room, the door swinging shut behind them.

"Well," Boromir said. "You were successful in making him dislike you."

"He insulted my honour and my people, and made little of their deaths," she practically growled. "I do not like him either."

He stopped, turning to face her seriously. "Tíniel… _I_ like you. And I know I have given you little reason to trust me but listen to me now: I know my way around Minas Tirith, and I know who you need as allies here. My father is the first among them. You need to choose your enemies more carefully."

Tíniel frowned, bemused. "I cannot _choose_ enemies, Boromir. He did wrong to me. I cannot smile and let that pass. That is not a _choice_."

"Is this your way, or the way of your people?"

"Both, I suppose."

"Then your people indeed seem honourable," Boromir said. "Honourable as men in the West were many centuries ago. But things are different now. There is honour, but a different kind, and harder to find. In politics, there is always a choice. You must choose your allies and know your enemies. And you must trust nobody."

"It seems wrong to me," she said. "What is a _politic_?"

"Politics is a terrible, terrible game where the stakes are higher than anyone can afford," Boromir said with a half-smile.

She didn't understand, but she let it pass. "Then I suppose I must listen to you," she said reluctantly. "I am stranger in this place."

"A stranger, but not without friends," he answered. She smiled slightly at this. "One more thing," Boromir continued. "I have to admit, your pirate friends were perhaps... not as we perceived. When we captured you, the crime rate on the seas increased tenfold. But when they escaped us, it dropped back again. I do not understand how or why, but I owe you an apology."

"You believe me?" she asked. "You believe that we were not pirates or criminals?"

"Yes," he said.

"Does this mean I am free?"

He snorted. "Not even close – especially after your discussion with Father. Your freedom is a bargaining chip for him. You will have to win his trust somehow, or remain a prisoner forever."

"I thought you said that there is no trust in the politics," she replied.

He grinned suddenly. "Good night, Tíniel," he said.

* * *

Her life fell into a rhythm that soon became habit. She trained hard every day, and split her time between Anita, Faramir and Boromir. Faramir began teaching her to read, and although she did not take to the art, she recognised its importance in the Northern culture. Sometimes she even wore her dress.

As she grew more accustomed to her life in Minas Tirith, the inhabitants of the city grew more accustomed to her. The whispers and staring at her black skin changed gradually into nods of greeting, of recognition and respect. Her status grew as a capable warrior and constant companion of the Steward's sons. Somehow, Tíniel grew comfortable, something she had rarely felt in Khand or on the _Haedannen_. It was strange, and she didn't know if she liked it.

The Steward himself made no effort to like her, though she was careful to watch her mouth around him after Boromir's warning. He would not allow her to join his army, nor did he approve of her training with them. Her door remained locked at night, and she knew she was being watched. But he accepted her now as a part of his sons' lives, and that was all she required.

She grew to respect the brothers. With Boromir she shared a special bond; both of them were heirs to their fathers and understood the weight of leadership. Both had experienced war, lost men, been wounded and survived. And so, there was an unspoken kinship between them. She became fond of Faramir, too. He was unlike any man she had met: unfailingly gentle, patient and compassionate, caught up in his books and ideas of peace and unity among men. And yet, somehow he always found the time to plan ridiculous pranks that no one but him found funny.

Both brothers went out of their ways to make her laugh, and as time passed, she felt Boromir was right; she might have been a stranger, but she was not friendless. And yet for her there was no peace. The comfortable lull of her life seemed ominous sometimes, and she ached for home. When she was alone in her room, in the dark of night, she remembered her old life. She missed belonging. She missed being in command of an army and seeing respect in her people's eyes – respect which she had earned. She missed being needed and having a purpose.

And sometimes she felt the familiar, dreaded weight on her shoulders. It was her doom, her future decreed by the prophecy, dictating her every breath. Sometimes she debated escaping to find the _Haedannen_ again, the place where she had been able to hide. But somehow, she knew that part of her life had passed. So she stayed, and waited for fate to strike again.

* * *

 **Welcome back! I'm sorry about the delays, it's a busy time of the year as you all know! Thanks to all of you reviewers, followers and favouriters that make the writing totally worth it! Bloody rippers!**

 **S**


	7. Rohan

**7 — ROHAN**

* * *

 _Two years later: 3016 Third Age_

"Swing harder."

She drove the blade with all the force she had, grunting with the effort – but his defence hardly buckled, and he pushed her back easily.

"Harder!"

She swung, the muscles in her arms straining, sweat beading on her forehead. He parried again with frustrating ease. She stepped back, and sat down tiredly on the compact dirt of the sparring ring.

"I told you, it's not going to work," she panted.

"But it _can_ ," Boromir spoke down to her, driving the point of his sword into the ground and leaning on it. "You've improved already, really; you are growing stronger."

Tíniel shook her head wearily. "Perhaps I am," she replied, "but I will never be nearly as strong as you want me to be. You are trying to train me like you'd train a man, but I – thankfully – am a woman."

"What do you propose, then?" Boromir asked.

"Speed," she answered. "I can't rival a man's strength; biologically we're too different. But I _can_ beat him with speed. I'm fast, and I can rely on this to win a fight. It's what I do."

"That is true," he conceded thoughtfully. "When you defeat me in sparring, it's never by strength. I'm far too strong for that."

"Ego check," she said, holding up a hand.

"Fine. Strength training will stop. Its career was brief, but shining."

Tíniel shrugged and got back on her feet. "Strength is still useful, but I'd be a fool to rely on it. At my home, I trained the _variagura_ , the women fighters. There was an easy technique that I taught them once we'd gone over basics." She got to her feet and approached him. "Here, we can try it. Swing at me, slowly."

Boromir lifted his sword and swung lazily at her left side. Holding the hilt of her sword with two hands, she parried the stroke and then, with lightning fast speed, flicked her wrists and reversed the direction of her blade so it came at Boromir's unprotected side. He leaped back.

"I thought we were going slowly!" he said, beginning to laugh.

She smirked. "That _was_ slowly. It requires very little strength, but it is deadly because it's fast. Do you see?"

"Can you show me how to do it?"

She shook her head. "I do not think it will work with a straight blade. The _mithiri_ is better for this, more flexible and faster because it is curved."

"Maybe so, but if you are fighting a man in chainmail, you would be better served with a straight sword."

"That is why we have knives! Anyway, you could never be as fast as me."

He grinned. "Ego check yourself, young lady."

* * *

That night Tíniel was in her room, leaning on the frame of her window and staring into the distance. Somehow she had allowed two years to go by in this place; but still not a day went by when she didn't think of her old home. The pure _strangeness_ of the North grated at her, and in the long winter nights, she lay in bed and wished she could return to the familiar warmth of the desert. Her reverie was disturbed suddenly by a knock at the door, and she started away from the window.

"Enter," she called.

The door opened, and Boromir came in. She smiled in greeting but he didn't return it. He came to sit on the bed beside her, his eyes flashing with anger.

"What happened?" she asked, concerned. "Uh... it wasn't me?"

He frowned. "No, nothing. I'm sorry, Tíniel, I'm not angry at you. I'm angry at my father." For another moment he was silent, as though hesitating, but then he seemed to make his decision. "I am to go to Rohan," he said. "A diplomatic journey, to speak with their king."

She frowned, wondering how this could concern her. "Alright..."

"And," he continued, "I was wondering if you would come with me."

Her frown deepened. "I thought Ingold usually accompanied you on this kind of journey."

"He would," replied Boromir, "but he's… unavailable. He suggested you come with me instead."

Tíniel raised her eyebrows. _"Ingold_ suggested that I go with you?"

"Yes, why does that surprise you?"

She rose from the bed and began pacing. Something did not quite ring true here. "He doesn't like me, for one thing. I can tell he looks down on me. He thinks I'm too young and frivolous."

"Well, you _are_ frivolous, but he doesn't dislike you. He's like that with everyone, he is naturally quiet."

"Maybe so… But your father, he surely would not allow me to go with you."

"I have spoken to him, and he has agreed."

Denethor agreeing to the idea of her, a seasoned criminal, travelling Gondor with his precious son? Something was definitely wrong. She pressed on.

"But are not the people of Rohan all golden-haired and blue-eyed? How would they react to someone who looks like me?"

"What about you?"

"My shocking attractiveness, Boromir. Oh, and also the fact that my skin is black?"

"It would be good for them," Boromir replied, and tried a smile that came out more as a grimace. "Tíniel, please – will you not travel with me? Is my company so repulsive to you?"

She came back to sit next to him and gave a smile of her own. "No, of course not. You're a terrible liar, and I will unearth your secret, but yes, I will come with you."

He stood, the relief evident on his face. "We leave tomorrow, in the late morning, so I will leave you to prepare. Just… a word of warning… It might be best not to tell anyone that you are going, alright?"

Tíniel stood quickly at this, her curiosity exploding. "Boromir!" she called, but he was gone, and the door swung shut behind him.

* * *

Only Faramir and Ingold were there to see them off the next day, and Tíniel suspected they were both in on whatever secret Boromir was hiding. Ingold had become a strange aspect of her life; he was reserved, quiet, and spoke to her rarely, but he was always at Boromir's side, and so they tolerated each other. The two men exchanged quiet words now, standing a little apart from Faramir and Tíniel.

"Stop worrying," Faramir said. "It makes you look older."

Tíniel turned to him incredulously. "Firstly, I am at _least_ ten years younger than you, old man. And secondly, I wouldn't have to _worry_ in the first place if you would just tell me what's going on!"

"Nothing is going on!" he replied defensively. "And I find that very offensive, by the way. I'm not ten years older than you."

She rolled her eyes. "I think you're lying, Faramir."

"About my age, or why you're going?"

"Ha! So there _is_ a reason that I'm going!" She made her voice light hearted, but in truth she was growing skittish. She somehow felt that she was in danger, but she wasn't sure how.

Faramir, true to himself, saw this in her eyes and stepped forward, putting his hands on her shoulders. "Listen to me," he said seriously. "You need to trust us here. Everything is going to be alright, I swear it –"

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Faramir –"

"Boromir will protect you, alright? Look at me! Boromir will be with you, and he will protect you."

"I do not like this at all," she muttered. "If you were _trying_ to be more suspicious..."

"Ah, I will miss you when you are gone," said Faramir, suddenly changing the topic.

Tíniel frowned. "It is only three weeks."

"Well… It will be the longest we have been parted since we met."

"And before we met, you survived without me your whole life. You will be fine, Faramir."

"Yes, but before we met you were not as a sister to me. So I will miss you, whether you will it or not!"

For a moment, Tíniel was unable to reply. A sister to him, Faramir had said. All thoughts of danger and subterfuge disappeared from her mind, replaced by an image of Tcharum, his white teeth flashed in a laugh.

"I am not your sister," she said quickly.

Faramir frowned but let the comment pass. "Well. Nevertheless, you and Boromir leave me here alone with my Father, so the three weeks will be as years to me."

Now a remembrance of cold, unyielding black eyes flashed through Tíniel's head, and the Khondyë's voice – _think as your brother thinks_ …

"I know how it feels," she said quietly. "Truly, I do – but you have to believe that he loves you. _I_ have to believe it."

"We shall see," he said. Then he pulled something wrapped in cloth from behind him. "Here, I have a gift!"

She unwrapped it. It was a book, its cover faded and slightly torn. " _The Tragedy of Fëanor and his Sons_ ," she read. "Really?"

"It's the best book ever written," he said enthusiastically. "You won't be able to put it down!"

"I have very little interest in Fëanor, and even less in his sons," she said sceptically. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather keep it? Isn't it your favourite?"

"Very sure," he said. "You can remember me by it."

"Faramir, I'll be gone _three weeks!_ "

Faramir said nothing, embracing her instead. She returned it, then stepped back and smiled. "Good luck with your father," she said.

"And you stay safe," he returned. "Don't tell Boromir that I put rocks in his saddlebags."

"Faramir!" she exclaimed.

Boromir looked over suspiciously. "What has he done now?"

"Nothing at all," his brother replied breezily. "You two ought to be off. Farewell!"

* * *

They rode for hours, until the sun dropped behind the horizon and they set up camp. It felt good to be going somewhere, to have a purpose; Tíniel would have felt free if she wasn't constantly thinking about Faramir's strange words. Boromir dropped to the ground wearily as she set the fire.

"He didn't put any stones in my pack, by the way," he said. "He was trying to fool us as usual."

She grinned. "He is a real pain in the –"

"He can be," Boromir interrupted quickly. She rolled her eyes at his propriety. "But he is a good man."

"Of course he is," she replied. "Too good, sometimes, but I am fond of him." The flame caught, and she blew on it gently until it licked up the branch.

"May I ask a question?" said Boromir. She looked at him expectantly and he continued. "When did you stop hating Gondor?"

Tíniel sat back on her heels and sighed. "Well, it certainly helped when your father decided to stop locking me in my room at night."

Boromir winced. "I'm serious. When did it change?"

"It never did. I still hate Gondor, Boromir," she said. He sat forward and frowned, almost angrily.

"What? Why?"

"Gondor is the reason my people suffered so much," she said, blowing gently on the fire again. "I was brought up to despise the very concept of the place, and you cannot expect me to change that simply because I have seen Minas Tirith."

"But you have done more than that! You have friends, _family_ here now! What if us, Faramir and Anita and Ingold, and me? Besides, it was all a misunderstanding. We know that now, the South Gondor dispatch was recalled many months ago!"

"That makes it worse! You cannot imagine how it hurts me that nobody cared enough to find out that it _was_ a mistake." The conversation was becoming dangerously emotional, so she sighed and lowered her voice. "I am sorry. You asked, and I cannot lie. But it is something I can't control. Perhaps I will never not hate Gondor, so don't get your hopes up."

Boromir, ever protective of his homeland, made a visible effort to let it drop. "I apologise too." He smiled half-heartedly. "You know how I feel about my home."

"I do. That is what it is like for me and Khand."

"But… do you hate _everything_ about Gondor? I mean, do you hate…"

She rolled her eyes. "Are you craving affection? Of course I don't hate you, or Faramir, or Anita. Perhaps I would even go so far as to say I am _fond_ of you. And your soldiers are good men, men I respect. But in all earnestness, you are overestimating Ingold's esteem for me. He barely looks my way, let alone speaks."

Boromir handed her a small loaf of bread. "Don't say that. He is naturally quiet, you cannot hold that against him."

She decided the fire was steady enough to grow on its own, and she came to sit beside Boromir. "Do not fear for my blossoming relationship with Ingold," she said, hiding a smile. "We will find our common ground one day. I know he is close to you."

Boromir looked at her cautiously. "He is," he said. "Ingold is a good friend, Tíniel. But… also more."

Tíniel glanced up at him, momentarily taken aback. He was staring determinedly into the fire. "Oh," was all she could think of to say. But in a strange way, it made perfect sense to her. "So… you will never marry?"

Boromir laughed, seemingly surprised at the question. "Not if I can help it," he said.

"Does Faramir know?"

"Yes, of course. But my father does not."

She nodded slowly. "I can understand that… But do you not have a duty to produce an heir? You would have to marry a woman to achieve this, no?"

"Well, my brother is as worthy an heir as any ruler could hope."

She was silent for a minute, chewing on the bread. This may be true, but it didn't change the fact that Boromir was knowingly refusing to fulfil a duty he had been born with. It seemed dishonourable; back home, it was an unspoken expectation that the Khondyë produce an heir to ensure the continuation of the tribe's tradition of leadership. It was necessary, expected, decreed by the Law and her duty as Makhyë. But things were different among the Northmen, and she'd learned better than to question them now.

"So," she said instead, "what should I expect in Edoras?"

"Blue-eyed, golden-haired, horse-riding, ale-drinking farmers," Boromir answered. She raised an eyebrow at him and he shrugged half-apologetically, grinning. "You're right, I shouldn't speak so. They are a good people and sworn to our aid."

"Why the diplomatic journey then?"

"There have been rumours," he said, his voice inadvertently growing lower, "that the King is not… in his right mind. I go to ensure that his position has not changed and that the Rohirrim will indeed come to Gondor's aid in her hour of need."

"And why do I go?"

Boromir's eyes shifted away. "To see the lovely countryside."

She snorted, but let it be. "What is 'in his right mind'?"

"It means sane. I wouldn't expect you to be familiar with the concept –" He was cut off as he ducked her slap.

* * *

On the afternoon of the third day, they arrived at Edoras. The great hall rose out of the top of the hill like it had been planted and had grown there along with the crops of the Rohirrim farms. It was a rich, rolling land, and again Tíniel marvelled at the beauty of this new place. Perhaps there had been an element of truth in Boromir's lie.

The guards at the gate, bearing green shields and with their yellow hair braided upon their shoulders, were expecting them and welcomed Boromir to Edoras, forming an escort around them as they travelled the road into the city. Tíniel had to ignore their openly hostile stares.

They climbed the path upward, allowing their horses to be taken and stabled. The houses here were all wooden and seemed simple; a clear stream ran alongside the road. At the top of the hill, the water burst from a spring around which the people had built a stone horses head, so it seemed as though the water flowed out from its mouth. Meduseld was the name of the great, golden-thatched hall at which they came to a stop.

"Your weapons, if you please," one of the guards said, looking pointedly at Tíniel.

Boromir frowned. "Is this the usual practice?" he asked.

The guard hesitated and without further ado, Boromir brushed past him into the hall. Tíniel followed unapologetically.

The king of the Riddermark was seated at the end of the hall in a throne that reminded Tíniel of Denethor's, though it was less ornate. She couldn't comprehend why the Northmen thought they needed big chairs to feel powerful. This king had golden hair, but it was beginning to grey; his skin seemed pale and the lines under his eyes pronounced. Lurking in the shadows beside the throne was another man, thin, sallow and dressed all in black. He stared at Tíniel with no small amount of distaste, but she returned the look coolly.

They stopped before the throne and Boromir bowed deeply. The king did not rise from his seat but inclined his head with respect. "My lord Boromir," he said. "Well met. I bid you welcome."

"I thank you, Théoden King," Boromir replied. "We are grateful for the hospitality of the Golden Hall."

"Yes," was all the king said reply. Then his eyes shifted to Tíniel. "And who is your companion?"

"Lady Tíniel of Gondor," said Boromir tersely, not missing the suspicion in the king's eyes. "She expressed a great wish to see the famed beauty of these lands."

"Is that so?" Théoden asked, now addressing her.

Tíniel glanced at Boromir, then back to the king. "Not the part about my being a lady," she said.

He stared at her unreservedly, then leaned forward and spoke, his voice quiet and wary. "Eorl the Young was killed by Easterlings."

Boromir stiffened beside her, but Tíniel did not flinch. "Then your quarrel is not with me, for I am not an Easterling," she said.

The king sat back but made no further comment, instead turning to Boromir. "We have much to discuss, but first you must rest. My sister-daughter, Éowyn, will take you to your quarters. I will see you at the banquet this evening."

A tall, slim woman dressed in white emerged from the shadows and beckoned for them to follow her. They did so, Boromir stepping protectively in front of Tíniel, and Tíniel rolling her eyes at his back. They exited the hall through a door in the back which led them into a hallway with more doors leading off it. After a little way, they stopped before one.

"Your quarters, lord," said the woman. Boromir bowed and put his hand on the door handle, but then hesitated and glanced at Tíniel. She nodded her assurance and he went in. Tíniel followed Éowyn further along the hall, until they stopped at another door. The woman, her eyes ice-cold and unreadable, turned to Tíniel.

"If you are not an Easterling, who are you?"

"I look nothing like an Easterling," Tíniel replied, starting to get offended. "My people are of Khand. It is a land in the South."

"I know what it is," Éowyn returned tightly. "It is a land of our enemies."

"Maybe so. Or maybe it is simply a land of people who you mistake for Easterlings."

There was a beat of silence, then Éowyn lowered her gaze and gestured to the wooden door before them. "You may sleep here."

Tíniel went in without another word.

* * *

An hour later, there was a knock on her door. She went to it and opened it slowly, wary of what might be without, but it was only Boromir waiting in the cold, dark hallway.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"For what?"

"We can't come to Rohan and spend all our time in our quarters. Our purpose was to make a connection, and so tonight we dine with them."

"That was _your_ purpose. They do not want me to dine with them." She frowned. "Also, I am dusty and weary. And I smell."

"Are you serious? There is a basin right there!"

"They probably poisoned it! They really hate me!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Boromir snapped. "You're coming."

They entered the great hall together, to a burst of music, light and warmth. The king was sat at the main table, with Éowyn and two young men, as well as the sallow man dressed in black, who whispered something into the king's ear.

"That is where we are headed," Boromir said to her. "Positions of honour."

"Yes, where everyone can stare at me more freely," Tíniel shot back, feeling more and more uncomfortable. Of all the places she'd been in the North, it was here that she felt most out of place.

They took their seats, and with very little of the ceremony that Tíniel had become accustomed to in Minas Tirith, the meal began. Boromir ate heartily beside her, but with all the eyes she could feel on her, Tíniel had little appetite. Instead, she turned to the blond, bearded man beside her.

"Good evening," she said, feeling abominably ridiculous in her effort at conversation with this stranger.

He glanced up at her, surprised mid-mouthful. "Good evening," he mumbled back, after swallowing quickly. "You – you are…?"

"Tíniel. Of… Gondor."

"Well met, Tíniel of Gondor. I am Éomer of Rohan." His voice was measured and polite.

"The son of the King?" she asked.

"No, his sister-son and Third Marshal. That," he said, gesturing to the man at Théoden's right hand, "is the prince."

She studied the other man for a moment; he seemed proud, but capable. "I see," she said, turning back to her untouched food.

Éomer frowned. "What is that supposed to mean?" he asked, a hint of a warning in his voice.

"What?" she asked, confused. "I asked if you were the King's son, you showed me the King's son. I saw him. That's all."

Éomer glared at her. "You can pretend all you like, but it is not for nothing that an Easterling comes into the Riddermark. I will be watching you, be sure of it."

Tíniel sighed and massaged her temples. "Éomer of Rohan, I have offered no insult or threat to your people or your land, and yet I have been insulted and threatened at every turn, even by your king. Perhaps I have a limited knowledge of Northern diplomacy, but I did _not_ imagine that it was common practice to actively attempt to make your visitors hate you!"

Éomer blinked and had the grace to look slightly ashamed. "But you _are_ an Easterling in enemy lands," he said in a less accusatory tone.

Tíniel fought the urge to upend the entire table and storm out. "By the everliving stars… I am no more an Easterling than you are an orc! I am a _variagura_ of Khand!"

There was a prolonged silence, and she winced at herself. Could she make it five minutes without sabotaging Boromir's diplomatic trip? But Éomer looked down at his hands, and then back at her, his eyes apologetic. "Shall we begin again?"

She nodded. "Let's."

"Good. Éomer of Rohan, at your service."

"Tíniel of Khand and Gondor, at yours."

"I hear Khand is very… hot this time of the year."

She couldn't help but laugh at his attempt at conversation. "Cold, actually. It isn't always hot there, but it never grows as cold as it does here."

"You should see the Northern winters," Éomer said. "The further North you go, the colder it gets. Have you ever seen snow?"

"No," she replied. "The two winters I have lived in Gondor were mild, I have been told. I have seen it on the mountains from afar, but not up close."

"Well then – imagine frozen raindrops, like icy fingers touching your skin."

She shivered. "I have been hard enough pressed trying to adapt to the rain her. It rains _all the time_!"

Éomer laughed, slapping his hand on the table. "Then I must advise you never to go further North than here. You would hate it!"

Tíniel laughed too and took a bite of her food. She was growing to like the Third Marshal's manner. "What are the people like further North? Are they all…" she gestured vaguely to the people around them. "Well… are they all white?"

"So far as I know, yes," he replied. "There are Elven-folk in the North too. Beware of them, lady; if ever you should meet one, do not trust him."

"Why not?"

"They are inhuman, and so the lives of Men are nothing to them. They walk differently, talk differently, see differently, fight differently…"

"Fight? How do they fight?"

"They are killing machines. They move so quickly and effortlessly… I have heard that it is frightening, the ease with which they can decapitate an enemy –" he cut off quickly, shaking his head. "My apologies. Such talk has no place in conversation with a lady."

Tíniel snorted. "Spare me. I have enough battle stories to fill one of those books you Northmen love so much."

He looked at her, surprised. "Women fight in Khand?"

"Of course. Well, we fight until we marry, and then we are the caretakers of our tribe. I suppose our enemies wouldn't know, because we all cover our faces in battle. I've spent my fair share of time being mistaken for a boy."

"You know, I trust you less and less with every moment," Éomer said, half laughing and half seriously.

Tíniel smiled. "You flatter me, if you think I could manage a full room of Rohirric warriors myself. But I'm sure I could last at least a minute or two."

Éomer's eyes widened slightly at her confidence, and he took a deep swig of his ale. "Heaven forbid someone introduce you to my sister… How in the world did you come to be in Gondor?"

"Well," Tíniel paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts. "There was a prophecy which predicted I would break sacred law, which made my people attempt to execute me. I escaped to a pirate ship, which wasn't _really_ a pirate ship but… an anti-pirate ship. But that was burned by Northmen because they thought we had a palantír, which we did, but accidentally. We were going to be hanged, but then I was beaten up, and Boromir felt guilty when he realised I was a woman, so he took me back to Minas Tirith. Then he and his brother stopped me from killing myself, and we became friends. And since then I've lived a quiet life, until now, when Boromir brought me here. And the _real_ question is, why? Because," she gestured around her, "It is clear that I'm hardly welcome."

Éomer stared at her for a second, slack-jawed, then he took a long swig from his flagon. "Remind me to _never_ introduce you to my sister."


	8. Hostages

**8 — HOSTAGES**

* * *

The next morning dawned bright and dewy, and Tíniel woke with the sunrise. She lay still for a moment in the strange bed, listening to the birdsong that seemed so much sharper and nearer than in Minas Tirith. If she listened hard enough, she could hear the faint sound of the stream rushing down the hill. And… shuffling outside her door? Quietly, she got out of bed, pulled her tunic over her head, put on her boots, and buckled on her weapons. She padded silently to the door, pressed her ear to it to listen, then, without warning, jerked it open. As she suspected, a man had been leaning against it, and now he tumbled backwards onto the ground with a startled cry.

She looked down at him, lying spreadeagled on his back, her expression unimpressed. "You were sent to guard me?"

Hastily scrambling to his feet, the blond man nodded mutely.

"To guard Edoras _from_ me, more likely," she said. "You may leave now."

"I have orders, lady –"

"My apologies. But I prefer my guards well rested. Go sleep."

"But –"

" _Leave_."

He scowled, but left without another word. Tíniel watched him march away before she scanned the shadows and found what she had suspected: Éomer.

"You seem to have a way with people," he said, stepping out of the gloom to stand before her.

"I call it my natural charm," she replied, masking her wariness with a smile. "Can I help you, Éomer of Rohan?"

"Your natural charm comes straight to the point," he grinned back. "I would like to take you to meet someone, if you would follow me."

He led her through a maze of corridors, silent and still as everybody slept, until they came out into an open courtyard just touched by the light of the dawn. In it was a practice ring, and in the ring, swinging her sword in a rhythmic pattern, was a woman; Éowyn, Éomer's sister. Her blonde hair was tied back loosely, and strands fell about her face as she whirled around in a practise exercise.

"Éowyn!" Éomer called. She froze mid-stroke and spun to face them, her expression tightening when she saw Tíniel.

"Brother," she said stiffly. "What are you doing here? I have told you a thousand times that you cannot convince me to stop training."

"Noted," Éomer replied drily. "I actually wanted to properly introduce you to my new friend, Lady Tíniel of Khand."

"We've met," Éowyn said coldly. "Éomer, what's going on?"

"I thought perhaps that you two could spar together. I have given up trying to reason with you, and Tíniel told me she has some experience fighting, so…"

Tíniel sighed. "You told me that you never wanted me to meet her," she said. "Repeatedly. This is a bad idea." Éowyn scowled at her, but nodded and turned back to Éomer.

"I reconsidered," he answered defensively. "Why is it so bad an idea? Éowyn has never had the opportunity to spar with a woman before, and I suppose you haven't either."

"Wrong," Tíniel said, her voice sharp. "I have fought with and trained hundreds of women. And here is my opinion: your sister dislikes me, and she is not advanced enough in experience or technique to keep this dislike out of her fighting."

Éowyn began to protest angrily in a language that Tíniel didn't understand, but Éomer put a calming hand on her shoulder and turned back to Tíniel. "Then couldn't you train her, as you would one of your fighters?"

Tíniel considered for a moment, looked at his pleading face, then nodded reluctantly. "Lady Éowyn?"

"I don't _need_ training from her!" Éowyn hissed at her brother, but stalked back into the ring and readied her sword. Tíniel followed her.

"You could be right," she said. "But at the moment you are angry, and this emotion is ruling your stance. You need to relax, you are too tense."

"Just draw your sword and fight me," Éowyn replied through gritted teeth.

Tíniel shrugged her shoulders. "I'm giving you time. You will make the attack, but before you do, you must relax."

"Draw your sword!"

"Calm down!"

" _Draw your sword."_

Tíniel sighed and looked at Éomer. "I cannot work with her."

With an infuriated cry, Éowyn rushed at Tíniel, her sword raised for the attack. Calmly, Tíniel waited until the last second, then swiftly drew her own sword, sidestepped Éowyn's charge, and flicked the sword from her grip. It fell to the ground with a clatter and Éowyn turned, disoriented and disarmed.

Tíniel bent and picked up the sword, examined it for a moment, then offered it back to the woman hilt first. "Calm down," she said quietly.

Grudgingly, Éowyn took it back and resumed her position, breathing deeply.

"Good," Tíniel said. "Now attack me again, with your head clear."

This time Éowyn breathed in deeply and stepped forward warily, and when she was close enough, began her attack. Tíniel let it continue for a few seconds, parrying easily, but then increased the rate of her blows until Éowyn fell back, panting.

"Do you see what is happening?" Tíniel asked. "You are trying to use strength and force to beat me. I am using speed. If you ever want to rival a man on the battlefield, so should you."

They began again, and Éomer watched with great interest until he sensed a presence beside him. He turned to see Boromir.

"Good morning, Lord Boromir," he said.

Boromir simply nodded in response, his eyes fixed on Tíniel. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" He asked.

Éomer laughed. "Absolutely not. But my sister needs guidance from someone whose tactic isn't to hack at the enemy until the head falls off. The lady Tíniel seemed a good candidate."

Boromir smiled. "I'm glad that she has taken to you so quickly, and you to her."

"I don't know that I had a choice in the matter," Éomer said. "She is so strange – here she is in a land where everybody mistrusts her, and yet as soon as she looks at you, you feel it is _you_ who must prove yourself to _her_."

Boromir's smile widened. "She's always been like that, in the time that I have known her; she commands respect without even speaking. You know, where she is from, she is some kind of warrior princess."

Éomer raised his eyebrows. "How heroic. And somehow unsurprising."

They both laughed, but Boromir sobered quickly and spoke again, lowering his voice. "Éomer… there is something I would ask of you."

A burst of laughter from the women in the ring interrupted them momentarily, but Éomer was too intrigued by Boromir's statement to be surprised by Éowyn's sudden companionship with the strange woman.

"What is it?" he asked.

"There is a reason I brought Tíniel here," Boromir said seriously. "Almost everyone in Gondor has warmed to her. My men are in awe of her, the servants favour her, the Healers love her, even the court respects her."

"And the rest of the people?"

"Are terrified of her, at the very least. But like I said, she commands respect."

"You said _almost_ everyone."

"Correct. My father, the Steward, distrusts her. Dislikes her, too. And now… well, you have surely heard. War is coming."

"Yes."

"And Khand will be an enemy to all those who stand against Mordor. My father plans to hold Tíniel hostage and use her to bargain with Khand, since she is the heir to her tribe's chiefdom. And I don't intend to allow this to happen."

"I see," Éomer said slowly, his mind reeling. "What is your plan?"

"I was hoping she could stay here," Boromir said slowly. "And now that she has an ally in you… perhaps with your protection?"

"I…" Éomer shook his head. "I do not know what I can say. It is not my decision to make."

"But perhaps you could help persuade your uncle, or at least your cousin."

"If it comes to it, then I will speak on her behalf. But have you told her of this plan, and why she was brought here?"

"Not yet," Boromir said.

Éomer laughed, visibly relaxing. "Then I daresay I won't need to make any decisions!"

Boromir grimaced. "We shall see," he said. "Wish me luck."

An hour later, the two women sheathed their swords. Tíniel clapped Éowyn on the shoulder and smiled. "Well done," she said. "You improved. A small, small improvement, but it was certainly there."

Éowyn laughed, wiping sweat out of her eyes. "I'm not so sure," she said. "But I'm sorry I misjudged you. I shouldn't have said all those things."

Tíniel shrugged. "All I did was teach you some technique. For all you know, I may still be a murderous savage from the South."

"But I didn't give you a chance," Éowyn replied seriously, "and you have given me two. So I am sorry."

"You are forgiven. I think I punished you enough today anyway," Tíniel said.

Éowyn laughed and grimaced at the same time. "True enough," she answered. "My shoulders feel like they were pounded by a club."

"We are here for another ten days. Will I meet you again tomorrow morning?"

Éowyn nodded. "I'd like that. But we need not part yet. Come with me, and I'll take you to where we can eat."

"I will meet you there," Tíniel replied grimly. "First, I must speak with Boromir."

* * *

Ten minutes later, she cornered him. "Time to talk," she said.

Boromir sighed and turned to face her reluctantly. "Tíniel, I have to meet with –"

"I care very, very little about the rest of that sentence, so humour me and don't finish it. Why are you avoiding me?"

"I am not _avoiding_ you –"

"Boromir."

"Yes?"

"Shut up. Why am I here?"

He sighed, avoiding her glare. "Because you've been following me around like a little lap-dog, apparently –"

"Boromir?"

"Yes?"

"Shut _up_." Menacingly, she moved closer until he couldn't look away. "Tell me the truth. You know I hate lies."

"Tíniel… listen, I am sorry…"

She gave a low laugh and shook her head. "The beginning of your explanation does not bode well for the rest."

He said it in a rush. "My father wants to hold you as a political hostage to blackmail the armies of Khand if it comes to war, so I took you away from Minas Tirith. And I brought you here because I want you to stay here when I go back."

Tíniel stepped back. So that was it; she should have known the Steward would turn on her sooner or later. Faramir's strange words the day they'd left made more sense now too. But she wasn't afraid – only angry. Boromir's betrayal made her feel as though she'd been punched in the gut.

"Is that how little you trust me?" she asked quietly. "My own freedom was at stake, and you didn't see fit to tell me?"

"Tíniel…"

"I will not stay here in Rohan. I trust none of these people. And the idea that I would be safer _here_ , where the general population wants me dead, than in Minas Tirith? That is ridiculous."

"But you were becoming such good friends with Éomer, and even his sister," Boromir pleaded. "Can you not just consider it?"

"Becoming _friends_?" Tíniel repeated incredulously. "Do you think I am a child?"

"Well you're behaving like one now!" he shot back, his voice rising.

"I resent that you do not trust me! After everything!"

"I said nothing because I knew you would be like this!"

"Clever man, who wouldn't want to avoid a child's tantrum? No," she continued angrily before he could reply. "I _will_ return to Minas Tirith, with or without you. Enjoy your meeting." With that, she turned and stalked away, her fist clenched around the hilt of her sword. Boromir watched her retreating back and as his temper faded, he felt like a fool.

"Curse the girl," he muttered, and stormed off the other way.

* * *

Tíniel pointedly avoided Boromir, instead spending time with Éomer and his sister. She couldn't help but imagine how well Éowyn would have fit in with the _variagura_ back home, with her blunt straightforwardness and her relish of the fight. She also relished the familiarity of mentoring someone, and her new student was eager to learn. The women spent time with each other outside of the ring too, eating and talking. Éowyn showed Tíniel around the city, and taught her how to avoid Gríma, her father's shadow who had an unhealthy interest in Éowyn. Tíniel used the paths to avoid Boromir.

"Tell me what's wrong," Éowyn said bluntly on the afternoon before Tíniel and Boromir were to leave. They were on the grassy plain outside the walls of Edoras, riding in the yellow light of the dying day.

"I'm perfectly alright," Tíniel replied, stroking her horse's mane gently. "Why do you give names to your horses?"

"Oh please," Éowyn snorted. "You are quite clearly upset about something."

Tíniel rolled her eyes. "I do not wish to speak about it."

"But you really ought to…"

"Ah, stop being such a _vorukhi_ , Éowyn. I'm leaving tomorrow anyway, so you won't need to worry."

"I'm not going to ask what that word means, because I am a lady," Éowyn said haughtily, but then her voice softened. "But Tíniel, after the few days I've known you I consider you a friend. And there is very obviously a problem between you and Lord Boromir, which is upsetting you."

Tíniel sighed and reigned in her horse. "I suppose your brother told you the reason that Boromir brought me to Rohan?"

Éowyn nodded.

"Boromir only told me about it after we got here. I am angry because he thought I would be angry about it. Which I suppose I was…"

"But?"

"But what really hurt me was that he – the man I have grown closest to in the North – even _he_ couldn't bring himself to trust me."

Éowyn was quiet for a moment, nodding. "I'm sorry," she said. "I imagine it is difficult for you, to feel so alone."

Tíniel smiled humourlessly. "Well, you can understand. Women are not supposed to be like us in the North. But I suppose it helps a little if you are white."

"But you must remember that Boromir was simply trying to save you from being imprisoned," Éowyn said. "Likely he has gone against his father's wishes to bring you here, and thus brought danger upon himself."

Tíniel huffed and urged the horse on. "Stop being so logical," she said.

Éowyn smiled and cantered after her, but suddenly her smile dropped. "Wait, Tíniel!" she called incredulously. "You _don't_ name your horses in Khand?"

* * *

That night, Tíniel packed her bag alone in her room. She hated not speaking to Boromir. It felt wrong, and she knew it was petty, but she felt hurt too. It all seemed so pointless; she had attempted to build another life in the North, but it had been for nothing. Not even Boromir trusted her. She was still the outsider, and in the moment she had considered herself more, she'd been made into a fool.

There came a knock at the door. She got to her feet to answer it, but she hesitated before opening it.

"Who is there?" she called.

"It is me," came Boromir's muffled voice. Her hand dropped from the door handle, and she left it closed.

"What do you want?" she said coldly.

"To talk," he answered, his voice wary.

"Talk then," she said. She heard him sigh, but then he spoke.

"I'm _sorry_ , Tíniel," he said. "You know I am. It was a mistake not to tell you of my father's plans." She didn't reply, so he continued. "It isn't an excuse, but I hope you know that I was protecting you. I was just a fool about how I did it. And…" he lowered his voice. "I'm not going to lose you over something like this."

She tried to maintain her silence, but she broke. "I know," she murmured back. "I know you just wanted to help. And perhaps, some day, in the _very_ distant future, I will be grateful."

She heard him chuckle, and she smiled half-heartedly. "But it hurt, Boromir. Maybe I sound like a weakling or a fool, but it really did."

"You didn't let me finish," he said. "I need to say one more thing: I trust you, Tíniel, with every fibre of my being. I trust you with my life, and the lives of everyone I love. You must know that, and you cannot doubt it."

Tíniel leaned her forehead against the thick, wooden door. "Then do it. Trust me. You can tell me things, you know."

"You don't think I haven't? Tíniel, I _love_ you. You are as a sister to me, and to Faramir."

She felt the hot burning behind her eyes again. "I am not your sister," she whispered back. "We share no blood."

"These things aren't about blood," he replied.

Tíniel broke the moment of silence. "I am sorry too," she murmured. "You have saved me, more than this once."

"Can I come in?" Boromir asked. Wordlessly, she opened the door, and he stepped in and pulled her into his arms. She hugged him back tightly, her face pressed against his shoulder. "Let's not fight again," he whispered.

"Then don't do stupid things again," Tíniel answered. He snorted and released her, stepping back to study her face.

"We shall see. But we have other problems at the moment. If you insist on coming back to Minas Tirith, how am I going to keep my father from taking you prisoner?"

"Easy," she answered. "I will explain to him that although I am the heir to my people, most of them would much prefer me dead and he would actually be doing them a favour."

Boromir opened his mouth, then shut it again, stunned. Swiftly, he reached back and shut the door. "What?" he said.

"I was accused unjustly of being a traitor and escaped execution."

He shook his head, the shock clear on his face. " _You_? Who in the world could believe _you_ capable of betraying? You're worryingly obsessive about _not_ betraying!"

"The fact is that they did," she said shortly, the all-too-familiar panic of the prophecy stirring deep in her stomach. "So, your father would really gain nothing by taking me prisoner."

Boromir folded his arms. "Tíniel, I am not trying to imply that I don't trust you, especially after the past week. But in truth, I know next to nothing of your past. I grow comfortable with who I think you are, and then I discover some little new thing that throws it all out again. Do I even know you?"

Tíniel barely registered the question as the panic rose in her gut, engulfing her chest in waves of sickening nausea. She breathed in and out slowly, and squeezed her eyes shut. _Khaviga_ , an insidious voice whispered inside her head. _Khaviga_ …

"Yes," she said quickly, her voice strangled. "Yes, you know me. You know who I am now. Maybe you shouldn't trust me, but who I am now is all I can give you."

He nodded slowly, then took her hand in his and squeezed it. "I understand," he said. Then he laughed. "No, I don't. But I do trust your judgement. Pack your bags, woman, and get some sleep; we leave early tomorrow, and you have an angry Steward to face down."

But Tíniel did not sleep that night, and the voice continued whispering for hours.

* * *

"Farewell, my friend," said Éowyn, grasping Tíniel's brown hand in her two white ones. "Or _westu hal,_ as we say here. I shall practise all you have taught me faithfully, never fear."

"Then I expect a great improvement when we meet again!" Tíniel replied, smiling. "I am grateful to have met you here, Éowyn. And pay no mind to all these men around you. They are accustomed to women being strong only in womanly ways, so don't listen when they try to stop you from training."

"Do you know," Éowyn said quietly, "it feels as though I'm no longer all alone."

"Don't be a fool," Tíniel replied. "Your brother cares for you deeply, and he's accepted the fact that you want to be a shieldmaiden. You couldn't be alone if you wished to be. But I do wish you luck with that worm Gríma!"

Éowyn winced. "Don't remind me," she muttered. "But you must go, the others are waiting to say goodbye."

"Then farewell," said Tíniel, "or _khuma_ , as we say in my homeland. Go in peace."

Next was Éomer, who kissed her hand and then squeezed it. "I cannot thank you enough," he said earnestly. "You've been a real surprise, Tíniel of Gondor."

"And I thank you," Tíniel returned, "for looking beyond what you saw. I hope we meet again."

"I don't doubt that we will," said Éomer. "Keep an eye on those high-minded Stewards in Gondor."

"Always," she grinned. "I thank you, Éomer, and... _Westu hal_!"

He grinned at her pronunciation of the strange words, and she moved on to bow before Gríma, who sneered back, then Théodred, who returned the bow, and finally the King, who nodded.

"You are welcome in these halls, should you choose to return," he said, his eyes not kind, but no longer suspicious.

"I thank you, King," she said. "You have been generous. May your land be… prosperous." She glanced sidelong at Boromir, who was standing beside her and clearly trying not to laugh. "And may your horses… run fast."

With these niceties, they were at last free to go.

"Here is your chance," Boromir said as they rode away from the farewell party. "You have won them over, you have a safe place to stay."

"You know my decision," she replied.

He nodded, having expected her answer. "Minas Tirith is a dangerous place to be for you. But at least you ride knowingly into the lion's den."

"Boromir," Tíniel said, "did you really have the Steward's permission to bring me to Rohan?"

Boromir laughed shortly. "Of course not," he said. "I took a risk, and I suppose soon I shall discover the consequence."

She shook her head. "Truly, you are a good man," she said earnestly.

"Feel free to tell that to my father," he said darkly. "Even your opinion might help. But if it doesn't, all the fast horses of Edoras wouldn't be enough to escape my father's wrath."

* * *

When they arrived back in the city, Tíniel was immediately arrested by a party of apologetic guards.

"Really, Targon?" she asked one of the guards as he tied her hands in front of her. "Is this necessary?"

"Not if I had any say in it," he muttered back. "None of us were very willing to do this. But our orders are explicit."

Tíniel sighed, grateful that at least the knots were loose. "You know as well as anyone that I'm hardly a danger to anyone," she said jokingly, "poor, weak woman that I am."

Another of the guards behind her, Hirgon, snorted, and Beregond grinned beside him. "We know as well as everyone that you are _highly_ dangerous. Come along now, criminal. Oh – Captain," he added, turning to Boromir. "We're not to arrest you, but perhaps a month in the dungeons would be easier to bear than what you have in store. The Lord Steward wishes to see you, immediately."

"Valar be merciful," Boromir muttered, then touched Tíniel on the shoulder. "I'll get you out of this. You have my word."

"Get yourself out of trouble first," she said quietly. He nodded, then turned and left.

Tíniel lost track of time in the dungeons, sitting in the damp darkness lit only by a flickering torch. But she didn't despair, trusting in Boromir's promise – and also in the fact that Denethor worshipped his eldest son. She imagined trying to talk her own father, the Khondyë, into freeing a prisoner, and smiled sardonically. He would have humoured Tcharum, perhaps, but as for her – well, she would have had better luck trying to make a camel start a fire.

She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining herself back to Khand. She would have been married to Borund by now, perhaps even with child. Tíniel pressed her palm to her flat stomach and allowed herself to picture herself with a swollen belly. She imagined tiny fingers curled around hers, imagined Borund's beaming face as he cradled the little child, imagined her father's eyes softening and finally smiling at the baby, and looking up at her at last to say _I am proud_ … Then, suddenly, it happened.

 _A picture, so much more real than the imagined scenes a moment before, flashed into her mind. It was her, cradling in her arms a baby boy. His skin was brown, but not as dark as hers. Tíniel watched in wonder as her dream self looked down lovingly at her son, and the child looked back with wide brown eyes…_

And then it was gone. Quickly, Tíniel opened her eyes, breathing heavily. The vision had been so beautiful, so perfect. So why did she have the heaviness on her shoulders that seemed to signal the coming of the prophecy? It was another one of the dreams that weren't dreams, more like visions… one of the doom dreams. Clasping her hands together to stop them from shaking, she drew in a calming breath, pushing the feeling down. Tchakhura had once had a future as a mother; Tíniel was merely a warrior, and warriors had to stay prepared.

At that moment, she heard an iron door squeal on its hinges, and footsteps echoed down the corridor. She got to her feet and moved to her cell door, just in time to come face to face with the Steward.

"You," he spat, his voice filled with contempt. "The chief's daughter and heir."

"Exiled heir," she replied quietly.

"So you too claim that this is true. How convenient that when a threat of imprisonment arises, you are suddenly unwanted by your people."

"There is nothing sudden about it," she said. "Do you think I am lying?"

"Yes," the Steward replied, "yes, I do. And I think you have my sons wrapped around your manipulative fingers."

"Your sons are both good, reasonable men. Can you not trust their judgement? And as for myself: if I had not been driven out of my homeland, I would be there now. Do not fool yourself into thinking I _wanted_ to come to Gondor."

"It is _you_ who is the fool. I know very well of your intentions, Tchakhura of Khand!"

She winced at the name but kept her voice calm and quiet. "You had reason to mistrust me when I came, I cannot deny that. But surely I have proven myself since then."

Denethor slammed his fist against the iron bars of the cell door, and Tíniel suddenly saw the crazed glint in his eyes. She forced herself not to step back, but lifted her chin.

"I have seen what shall come to pass," he hissed at her, spittle flying from his lips, "in my palantír I have seen it. I will never, _never_ trust you, you Southern swine!"

Without warning, Tíniel fell to her knees, feeling as though she'd been stabbed in the stomach.

 _The dark prison around her had disappeared, and now all she saw was Boromir's white face cradled between her black hands, a ribbon of dark crimson blood trickling from the corner of his mouth…_

She retched violently, and the doom dream disappeared, leaving her shaking, on all fours in the dungeon. Denethor had left. She was alone.

She moaned, collapsing onto the floor and curling up. It was too much, this was all too much. She couldn't bear the suspense anymore; she could never hope to find peace when the curse hung over her head, threatening every person she ever tried to love. She was alone, she _had_ to be alone, she was _doomed_ to be alone… she groaned again, trying to strangle her thoughts.

"Tíniel?" came a frantic voice, and suddenly aware of her show of weakness, she staggered to her feet.

"Boromir!" she gasped, clinging to the bars.

"What is wrong? By the heavens, what have they done to you?"

The fury in his voice made her take an unsteady breath, but she shook her head vehemently. "Nothing," she said. "Nothing, I am well. I swear I am."

Boromir looked at her carefully for a moment, clearly not believing her, but then seemed to remember why he was there. He took a key from his belt and unlocked her cell door. "Come then. I am taking you home."

Tíniel stepped back, uncertain. "Can you do this?" Her voice was still shaking.

"No, of course not. My father will be furious, but the truth is I no longer care. I'm going to protect you, Tíniel. You are not alone, alright?" He looked at her seriously. "You never will be, so long as I live. I swear it."

She stood there silent for a moment. How could he have known that those words were exactly what she'd needed to hear? Without warning, she closed the space between them and threw her arms around his neck. She smiled when he returned the embrace and swung her around.

"Stop being so serious all the time," he murmured. "You have a place here."

He was right. This was home.

* * *

 **I hope you're all enjoying the story so far! Shout out to my followers, favouriters and reviewers, ya legends... and keep an eye out, something special is up next!  
**

 **S**


	9. In the North

**9 — IN THE NORTH**

* * *

 _Imladris, 3016_

 _The dream was realer than real, and it put him on edge._

 _He was in Minas Tirith, standing before the White Tree. Around him was gathered a great crowd, and they looked up at him, their faces expectant. He was being crowned, he realised. As the King of Gondor._

 _His stomach dropped, and he fought the urge to gag. He wasn't ready, he had never truly believed it would come to – to this! Why, after so many generations, must the burden of the sceptre fall to him? Why now? Why could he not live away his days in the North, and fade into history as so many of his ancestors had?_

 _Two thin, faceless figures approached him, one cloaked in white and the other in blue. The first carried the silver, winged crown of Gondor, and stepping forward, it placed the crown on his head. Immediately, the weight of it was unbearable. It was dragging him down. He couldn't do it, he was not strong enough… he staggered, and fell to his knees. The crowd laughed, and he hid his face in his hands._

 _But now the second figure approached. This one carried a silver medallion on a long chain, the likes of which he had never seen before. It was circular, shining and glittering as it spun in the light. As it grew nearer to him, he saw that it was embossed with a tree and seven stars – the crest of the King. The ghostly figure made to put the medallion around his neck, but before it could, he lurched away._

 _"I cannot take the weight," he gasped. "It is too much for me!"_

 _"East and West," rasped the voices of the two figures, speaking as one. "You must bear them both. But you need not bear them alone."_

 _He looked around him at the waiting crowd. None of the faces were familiar._

 _"Where is she then?" he breathed. "If I am not alone, where is she? Arwen!" The crowd was now silent, and they looked down at his growing panic with stony faces. "ARWEN!" he bellowed._

 _But she was gone, and he knew it._

* * *

He woke suddenly, breathing hard. Yes, something was wrong. Something was missing, and had been waiting for him to see it. The dream, or vision, had only confirmed what he already knew.

"Estel?" came a muffled voice.

"Elladan," he called back hoarsely, disentangling himself from his sheets, pulling a shirt over his head and opening his door. "What is it?"

Elladan's face was a mixture of pity and reluctance. "Brother…" he said. "Arwen wishes to speak with you."

Aragorn inhaled sharply. "She has made her choice, then?" he muttered, hating the tremble in his voice.

"That is for her to say," Elladan replied. "You know where to find her."

* * *

She was under the trees, walking silently in the shadows cast by the moon. His heart was heavy as he approached her, and all was clear to him; he knew everything she was about to say, and every dread thing that the words would make him feel. But still he wanted to hear it from her lips.

"Arwen?" he murmured.

She smiled when she heard her name. "Estel," she replied. "The hope of mankind."

"But not your hope," he said quietly – a statement, not a question. She met his gaze and smiled sadly.

"So you, too, have come to know the way things must be," she said.

"Why now? Why do you sail now, when you would not go years ago, even when your father begged it of you?" He couldn't keep the hurt from his voice.

"Because I was unsure then," she said. "I was torn. But this very night, I caught a glimpse of the path that awaits you, and that was enough to rid me of my doubts."

"You saw my future?" he asked, his voice barely audible. "A future without you?" She nodded and he let out a shuddering breath, burying his face in his hands. "I saw it too. I saw myself becoming King without you by my side, and it was too much, Arwen, it is too _much_! How can you ask me, after everything, to do this alone? Just because we foresaw it doesn't mean that it must be so!"

She pressed her palm to his cheek, and their eyes met, his filled with fear and hers calming. "Why do you despair, Estel? I did not see you alone in your future. I saw you happy, happier without me. And that makes me happy."

"And everything that we had? That we have?"

"We had a dream, Estel. It was a beautiful dream, but you cannot forget who you are for it."

"Beren did not forget who he was," Aragorn said tightly. "And still he won Lúthien's hand."

"Beren did not carry the weight of duty that you do, and he could live his dream. But you carry a duty greater than any man before has carried. You are named the Hope of Men, and so it is for Men that you must live." She smiled and dropped her hand. "And so I leave you, and so we both are freed."

She leaned in and kissed him briefly. He knew it was a goodbye, and it tasted bitter. "I have loved you, Estel," she said. "Now forget me, and fulfil your destiny."

She left for the Havens the next day. Aragorn climbed the cliffs behind the Last Homely House and watched the procession wind out of the valley. He tried to understand how he felt. It was not sadness, or regret. It was not anger, but nor was it fear. A little part of it was relief, he realised numbly. Arwen was right, she had freed them both. But what had she freed him to?

As the procession faded away into the distance, it came to him. It was loneliness. He felt alone.

* * *

 **It's a shorty, but a goody (as they say...). Send your thoughts our way – my town legitimately ran out of water yesterday. And p** **lease, please be kind enough to leave a review; a million thank yous to those who do! You guys bring rainbows to my rainless world. And with that seamless metaphor, I'm out! See you soon for another banger of a chapter...**

 **S**


	10. Doom Dreams

**10 — DOOM DREAMS**

* * *

 _Two years later: June 3018, Third Age_

"Anita!" Tíniel shouted at the silent house. _"Anita_! By the stars, woman, where are you?"

"I'm here," came Anita's voice from behind her, sounding highly unimpressed.

Tíniel whirled around. "At last! Forgive me, I thought you were home."

"I was at market," Anita replied, gesturing to the basket on her arm. "But that's alright, everyone around here already thinks you're crazy."

Tíniel shrugged. "I can't argue with that. But I came to ask you – do you know where Boromir and Faramir are? I haven't seen them all day."

"Why in the world would _I_ know?"

"I thought perhaps Beregond might have said something. I cannot find him, or Ingold, or Hirgon, or Targon, and none of the other guards know anything."

"Well at least you consulted every male in the city before me," Anita said, rolling her eyes. "Beregond has been at some meeting since early morning, so there's a chance they might be with him. What is the matter? Is everything alright?"

"I'm fine… just worried. Something's going on," Tíniel muttered. "My crazy-woman instincts are making me nervous."

Anita frowned. "What do you think it is?"

"I don't know yet." She sighed. "Perhaps I really am just losing my mind. Let us speak of something else. How were the markets?"

"Busy," Anita said. "And in all honesty, I am a disaster of a mother. I lost Bergil."

"What?!"

She shrugged defensively. "He was the one who ran off! And he knows every corner of the city anyway, he'll surely find his way home. He may be eight years old, but he has aged me forty winters."

Tíniel laughed. "Well, you don't look a day of it. I suppose I will have to go and wait out this meeting. Do you want help unpacking the food?"

"Certainly not, you'll make a mess of it. Run along! You can tell me what it was all about later."

* * *

Tíniel let herself into Boromir's chambers to wait for the brothers to return, but hours passed and still they did not. She was seated on one of the cushioned chairs in the little sitting room, absent-mindedly watching the flickering light of the fire, when she drifted off.

 _Immediately, a landscape unfolded before her subconsciousness. It was a dream, but strange in its realness; a doom dream._

 _She was floating in the air above the gleaming, pointed pinnacle of the White Tower. The world was quiet, in some kind of slumber. But in the East, a sudden darkness swept across the sky, a darkness that filled Tíniel with irrational fear. It tried to drown the whole sky, but in the West a glimmer of light held the darkness at bay. Tíniel squinted in that direction, trying to discern the source of the light until, without warning, a voice echoed out of it. She heard it as from a great distance, but its words were clear._

 _"Seek for the Sword that was broken:_

 _In Imladris it dwells;_

 _There shall be counsels taken_

 _Stronger than Morgul-spells._

 _There shall be shown a token_

 _That Doom is near at hand,_

 _For Isildur's Bane shall waken,_

 _And the Halfling forth shall stand."_

 _A sudden, nameless anger came over her._ _"Damn your prophecies!" she cried. "Whoever you are, damn you and your riddles! What right have you? Tell me straight, what more do you want of me?"_

 _She heard a peal of strange, amused laughter, and it made her furious, but she found herself unable to speak. "In Imladris it dwells…" the voice called, growing fainter but still with the edge of laughter._

 _"Tíniel… Tíniel!"_

She jerked awake, and realised it wasn't the voice calling her name, but Faramir, gently shaking her shoulder. "Tíniel! Ah, she is awake at last. Not an ideal sleeping place, my friend," he said, and she groaned, standing up stiffly. The fire burned low in the fireplace, and the candles had gone out.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"After midnight," Boromir replied, sitting down wearily on one of the chairs and lighting a few candles. "What are you doing here?"

"I was waiting for you two," she said, going to sit back down beside him stiffly. "Where were you?"

"In counsel," Faramir said darkly.

"All day?"

"Yes," said Boromir tightly. "We're going to Osgiliath."

Tíniel sat up straight. "What?"

He sighed massaging the bridge of his nose. "It seems the Lord of Mordor sees fit to attack it. In the time of our father's youth –"

"Four hundred and seventy years ago," Faramir cut in sarcastically.

"In our father's youth, Gondor managed to retake Osgiliath, at a great cost. Now we stand to lose it again, and that would be grievous."

Tíniel nodded slowly, taking in the information. "So, we ride to defend it?"

Faramir snorted. "We? Unlikely, little sister. Father would suspect you of sabotage."

"And even if he didn't, he'd never allow a woman to ride with the army of Gondor," Boromir added. " _We_ are riding to defend the city. You are to stay here."

Tíniel looked from Boromir to Faramir, incredulous. "So, I am to stay here and wait and mourn like a proper Northern damsel?"

"Well, you needn't mourn unless we're dead," Faramir reasoned, and she glared at him.

Boromir put a comforting hand on her arm. "You'll survive," he said. "And we will come back."

She sighed. "When do you go?"

"Tomorrow," Faramir said, his expression sobering. "The army musters tonight, and marches before the dawn."

"So soon… And there is certainty that there will be an attack?"

"Almost certainly," said Boromir.

"Are you afraid?" she asked softly.

Both brothers looked up quickly, but Boromir smiled. "Of course not," he said.

She held his gaze carefully. "In Khand, we say that only the fool does not fear the snake."

His smile faded. "I don't fear the battle," he said. "But I do fear the Enemy."

"So should you," Faramir said. "So do I. But we can't sit by and wait for death, and so we must go."

"And there is no other way?"

"When heads are at a loss, bodies must serve," Boromir said. "And they shall."

Tíniel nodded grimly, her heart sinking a little. "So be it. I suppose I will not see you again before you leave?"

Boromir nodded. "We should say our farewells now," he replied.

She stood and turned to face Faramir. "I'm not your sister," she said. "But perhaps I will suffer you to call me that if you return."

He grinned. "I suppose I must return then," he said, and he hugged her tightly. "Never fear, little sister. I will be back to plague you."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," she muttered, pulling away.

"My turn," Boromir said, and pulled her into his arms. "Think of us," he whispered.

Tíniel laughed humourlessly as he released her. "How could I not? I wish I could come with you."

"I know. I am sorry."

"Take care of your men."

"Always."

She glanced at the two men one final time, then left them and returned to her chambers.

* * *

A week later, and Anita couldn't take any more.

"Either stop pacing, or get out of my house," she demanded.

Tíniel whirled to face her. "I cannot," she said, her voice low and full of energy. "Anita, I cannot _do_ this anymore. I have not slept an hour since they left, I think of nothing but whether or not they are dead, I keep looking East and seeing the _damned_ smoke in the _damned_ sky –"

"For the love of peace, Tíniel, I know! My husband is out there!" Anita snapped.

Tíniel ceased her pacing and came to sit beside her friend. "I know," she said quietly. "I know, and I am so sorry to be like this around you. It's just, I've never had to deal with the waiting before, and I cannot believe that I am not there with them –"

"So you have said forty times today –"

"– but this is awful! I mean, there's nothing to _do!_ "

"It gets easier after a while," Anita said, taking her hand and smiling sadly. "I have come to accept that I have nothing to grieve until there is something to grieve for. And so far, I have not had to grieve."

"You are braver than everybody gives you credit for," Tíniel said. "But me? I swear it this time, I am losing my mind!"

At that moment, Bergil burst into the room, panting. "Mama!" he cried. "You are wanted at the Houses of Healing! There is a man with no hand!"

Anita inhaled sharply and looked at Tíniel, her eyes wide.

Tíniel nodded, her head suddenly clear. "Finally!" she breathed, and the two women and the child flew out of the house and up the street.

The Houses were a whirl of activity, shouting and frantic faces. The men had returned from Osgiliath, Tíniel realised. But how many? She scanned the room, her heart pounding, her hands clenching in the rough fabric of her skirt. There was Faramir! But he was unconscious and surrounded by grim-faced Healers. And on the bed next to him…

"Boromir!" she called, hurrying over and kneeling next to him. "Oh, thank the stars, _vori u kherë_ , you are alive. You are alive. Are you alright?"

His face was white, and his clothes were bloodied and torn, but he seemed to have escaped serious injury. He tried to smile but failed. "Ingold," he whispered, his voice anguished. "He lost a hand…"

Tíniel followed his gaze and saw Ingold, surrounded by Healers. She caught sight of his left arm, now bandaged. Just below the elbow, it was a stump. She winced but turned back to Boromir. "It's going to be alright," she murmured, taking his hand and brushing bloody, matted hair out of his eyes. "Look at me, Boromir: he is strong. He will live."

Boromir's eyes were haunted, but he nodded, holding her hand in a vice grip. She didn't complain, but her eyes moved back to Faramir.

"And your brother?" she asked with forced calm.

"I don't know," Boromir said, his voice filled with panic. "Tíniel, I don't know… I did not see what happened, and I did not protect him. Tíniel, there — there were so many…"

He was in shock, she knew. The battle must have been a massacre. "Hush now," she admonished him gently, taking a cool cloth from a pail by the bed and using it to start washing dirt and blood from his face. "You did well, so well. I am proud of you, do you understand? But now you must sleep."

He nodded vaguely, but his eyes continued roving the room. She sat with him into the night, until the Houses calmed down and his eyes closed.

* * *

Boromir jerked awake two days later.

"Tíniel!" Anita called from his bedside. "He is no longer sleeping!"

"At last," Tíniel breathed, and came over from where she had been talking with Faramir. "How do you feel?"

"Like I have been trampled by a stampede of horses," he rasped, and realised how dry his throat was. "Water, please?" Anita handed him a cup, and he drank it gratefully.

"Not too fast," the Healer warned. "You'll upset yourself."

"Will it upset me more than fifteen orcs rushing at me did? I am fine," he snapped. Anita frowned, and he relented. "My apologies, Anita. I have dozens of excuses for my bad behaviour, but I doubt you'd care for any of them."

"Then you have come to know me well," she said, checking his pulse. "You seem well enough; the sleep of the dead appears to have done you good. But you still need to rest, my lord."

"No," Boromir said, sitting up suddenly. "No, I need to talk to my father. Faramir?"

"He is right," Faramir agreed. "I promise I am not doing this to annoy you this time, Anita, we really must go."

"And how do you, two men who can hardly walk, propose to get there?" Tíniel asked drily, her hands on her hips.

Boromir looked up at her and grinned. "O, ye of little faith," he said.

* * *

Tíniel's legs trembled with the effort of supporting the weight of the two fully grown men as they hobbled across the courtyard.

"Only a hundred yards to go," Faramir gasped, and she groaned. Boromir had his eyes screwed shut with the pain and effort. Tíniel wondered vaguely what could be so important that they needed to seek out the Steward immediately, but the thought was pushed out of her mind and replaced by the sheer willpower required to support them.

They made their way past the white tree which hung melancholy, silent and dead over the fountain pool, its twisted grey branches dripping solemnly into the water. She hated the tree, but the people of Minas Tirith clung to its rotting corpse desperately as a remembrance of the days of the kings. Tíniel wondered why they wouldn't look to the future rather than dwell in the past.

At last they entered the throne room, but that was still far from the end of the journey. Tíniel looked up and saw Denethor lounging in his black chair at the foot of the dais at the end of the long hall. He made no move to help them, but rather watched their agonisingly slow progress past the cold statues of the kings of Gondor with calm passivity. She gritted her teeth and paid him no more mind, instead focussing on holding up Boromir and Faramir. Finally, after what seemed like years of struggle, they came to a halt.

"Father," Boromir panted, "please… a chair?"

"Guards," Denethor called, still motionless, barely raising his voice. Two guards stepped forward and each placed a chair before the Steward. Carefully, Tíniel lowered Boromir into one, then Faramir into the other. She stood behind, rolling her shoulders and wincing.

"So," the Steward said casually. "You have failed."

"We did everything we could," said Faramir defensively, not meeting his father's eyes. "But too many lives were at stake. We barely held our side of the river, and in the end we had no choice but to destroy the bridge."

"And yet by your actions you have only put _more_ lives at stake. Half of Osgiliath now belongs to the Enemy. He has gained a foothold at the very gate to our kingdom. But of course, this doesn't matter, because you did _everything you could_." Tíniel saw Boromir wince at the sarcasm in the Steward's voice.

"Father – my lord – it is true we have sustained a great loss," he said placatingly. "But had we stayed on the Eastern bank, it would have been taken despite any efforts, and the army would have faced a massacre. Even as we destroyed the bridge…" His eyes grew shadowed. "Too many fell. So perhaps we have failed, at least by half, but truly, we had no other choice."

"There is too little time now to ruminate on past mistakes," Denethor said, relenting. "But time only to try to amend them. I assume there is another reason that you have come to see me, along with your…" his eyes flicked to Tíniel. "Your friend?"

Boromir cleared his throat and glanced at Faramir. "It has nothing to do with Tíniel, but… there is another thing we wished to consult you about," he said. "It is a thing which evades logic and understanding, and on which we hope your wisdom may shed some light."

"Get to the point, my son," said the Steward.

"I think it would be best if you told him," Boromir said to his brother. "It is your dream after all."

Faramir nodded taking a deep breath. "Father, the night before the battle, a strange dream came to me. But it was not as dreams usually are. There was a strange sense of… of realness and heaviness, and I had this… _feeling_ , that everything I saw was true. I can't say how, but I just knew it."

"A doom dream," Tíniel blurted out, before remembering where she was and blushing. Both Boromir and Faramir twisted in their seats to face her, and Denethor gave her a withering look.

"A what?" asked Boromir.

"A doom dream," she repeated, feeling foolish. "It's a name I gave to this kind of vision. They come to me sometimes."

Faramir regarded her curiously, but made no further comment, only turning back to his father. "Yes, well, this… doom dream came to me the night before the sudden assault. In the dream, the Eastern sky grew dark, and this darkness spread across the sky, smothering all in its path. But in the West, it was held at bay by a pale light. And from the West called a voice that I heard very clearly, though from a great distance. It gave some kind of prophecy."

"Speak it, then," said Denethor.

Faramir drew in a deep breath.

" _Seek for the Sword that was broken:_

 _In Imladris it dwells;_

 _There shall be counsels taken_

 _Stronger than Morgul-spells._

 _There shall be shown a token_

 _That Doom is near at hand,_

 _For Isildur's Bane shall waken_ –"

" _And the Halfling forth shall stand,_ " Tíniel finished for him, her voice filled with wonder. Again, the brothers turned to face her, surprised, and she continued. "I had the dream too, the night before you left when I was waiting for you to come out of the meeting. I saw exactly the same thing."

"And I too dreamed this vision," said Boromir, "but only once, not many times like Faramir. Yet every detail is as clear in my mind as if I could see it before me now."

Faramir turned to his father, his face enthusiastic. "Then there is no doubt," he said. "The doom dream was meant to be seen by us. Somebody made very sure of that. Father, I _must_ go to Imladris. Will you give me your blessing?"

"You were right to come to me quickly, but only one line is clear to me," Denethor mused. " _Seek for the Sword that was broken_. But what wisdom is there in chasing a legend? And in Imladris, a place that we cannot be sure exists?"

"But surely there is wisdom only in doing as the doom dream has instructed," Faramir argued. "Only a fool would disregard so clear a message."

"True," Denethor said. "Imladris, though it be woven of stories, must be sought. But Faramir, you do not have my blessing. In fact, I give you my refusal. Boromir must go in your stead."

Faramir's face flushed with fury and humiliation, but he kept his voice low. "Please, father, be reasonable. This is _my_ dream, I should be the one to fulfil its requirements! Surely that is what was meant by its being sent to me many times, and the others only once!"

"Nonsense," the Steward replied resolutely. "If counsels of such importance are to be taken, Gondor must be properly represented."

"By me, your own son!" Faramir pleaded.

"By my heir," Denethor replied, his tone brooking no argument. "Boromir, will you do this duty?"

Boromir looked apologetically at Faramir, then bowed his head. "If that is what you wish, my lord."

"Good. Then you shall leave as soon as you are recovered and able. That will be all."

Faramir stood abruptly and tried to storm away but staggered after two steps. Tíniel rushed to catch him before he fell, and as she put his arm over her shoulders, she saw the hurt visible in his eyes.

"I am so sorry," she whispered. Boromir limped up to her other side, and together they made their slow, undignified way back to the Houses of Healing.

* * *

"Stop it, damn you," Tíniel said.

"No," Faramir growled, swinging his sword again and nearly overbalancing himself with the effort. They were in the sparring field, but it was empty of people except them, because it was late at night. Tíniel was sitting on the ground, leaning against a pillar, and Faramir was attempting an exercise with little success.

"Faramir, please," she tried again. "You're going to reopen the wound on your shoulder."

"Shut up," he muttered, and bracing himself, swung again. The effort was one too many, and he hissed in pain, dropping his sword and pressing his hand to his shoulder.

" _Damn_ you, fool!" Tíniel said, jumping up and going over to help him, but he pushed her off.

"You shouldn't swear so much," he said through his teeth.

She put her hands on her hips. "And you shouldn't disregard what I tell you. Don't pretend I didn't tell you this would happen."

"Fine," he said shortly, looking up. "But if I cannot take out my anger somewhere, I am going to go crazy."

"You could take up baking," Tíniel suggested, then grinned apologetically at his withering glare. "I'm sorry. I know this is hard for you."

"It is _my_ dream, it has come to me nightly. But no, of _course_ father had to choose Boromir over me, because what better way to spite me!"

"Faramir…"

"No, you cannot say you know what it's like –"

"Oh, but I can. At least your father calls you by your name." She helped him limp back to the pillar and they sat side by side, leaning against it.

He looked at her sidelong, catching his breath. "And yours?"

"Called me 'girl'", said Tíniel, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "He favoured my brother above me, even though I was his heir. Nothing I ever did could please him. You know, I think he would be glad that I no longer plague him with my existence every day." Faramir gave her a long look, but she only smiled. "So don't say that I don't understand how you feel."

He sighed. "Maybe you do, but it changes nothing. And now Boromir is to go, all alone on dangerous roads where he does not know the way…"

"Not if I can help it," she said quietly.

He looked up quickly. "Tíniel…"

"No, listen to me. I mean to go to this place of Elves, with or without anyone's approval. There are… things… in my life that have been dormant too long, and this concerns me. If the Elves are really as wise as I have heard, perhaps they can shed some light on my problem."

"What problem?" Faramir asked curiously.

Tíniel felt a tendril of the familiar panic unfurl in the bottom of her stomach. "It is not for you to know," she said quickly, "nor any other save myself. But if I can fix it, it will protect me and those that I love."

He sighed. "I suppose there's no reasoning with you?"

"As usual."

"And Boromir?"

"He will not approve, of course. Neither will the Steward, but if I have my way he will not hear of it until we are too far gone."

He leaned his head on her shoulder. "My stubborn, foolish sister…"

"Not your sister," she reminded him, and he laughed.

"I thought I had earned the right to call you sister if I survived Osgiliath!"

"I changed my mind," she replied, smiling.

"So, what am I to do while you and Boromir steal my quest?"

"Get better," she murmured, resting her head on his. "And stop undoing all the Healers' work."

"Tíniel," he said seriously, "I cannot go North myself, but I will do everything I can to get you there. On two conditions."

She looked down at him. "And they are?"

"Swear you will do everything you can to protect Boromir."

"He'll be fine," she said, frowning. "There isn't a man in Middle-earth who needs less protecting than him."

"I know, but I just… I have a foreboding feeling. I don't want him dying in a place where I can't die beside him."

"That's the grimmest thing I've heard all day," she said, "but I agree. What is your second condition?"

"Swear you will return."

Tíniel looked up at the Northern stars that had become more real to her than those of her memory. "Some promises can't be kept," she whispered. "But I will say this: if I am alive, I will return to Minas Tirith. And as for Boromir…" she nudged Faramir's head off her shoulder and looked him steadily in the eyes. "I swear to protect him, as my lord and my friend, as best as I am able."

"Truly?" he asked.

She nodded, and smiled lopsidedly. "With my life."

* * *

Faramir turned out to be much easier to convince than Boromir.

"Don't be ridiculous," he said brusquely. "You're not coming."

"I am a free citizen of the realm," she replied firmly. "Well… somewhat free. Anyhow, it just so happens that I am taking a voluntary, personal trip North at the same time as the Steward's son. And if you don't want to travel with me, you won't have to. Although, I'll probably be following you, because I don't know the way."

"Why do you have to be like this?" Boromir groaned, smacking his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Why are you _always_ like this? Why couldn't we have had the sweet, obliging princess of Khand, instead of the obstinate, headstrong, annoying one?"

"If there were ever such a sweet obliging princess," Tíniel said gravely, "it is me."

"You cannot come, Tíniel. You're not coming. I forbid it."

"You have no say in it. I was merely informing you as a courtesy."

"Please don't do this."

"Please allow me to make my own choices!"

"Not when they're fool's choices!"

"Boromir," she snapped, growing serious. "Listen to yourself! If you trap me here, you're no better than your father."

He glared at her angrily. "Take that back."

She held up a hand and drew in a deep breath. "I am sorry to be like this, but I _will_ be going, be it with you or by myself. You can make your choice."

He stared at her, his lips pursed, his eyes daring her to back down. She didn't, and he sighed heavily. "Valar, you're annoying."

* * *

A week later, in the grey dawn of a June day, they were ready to set out. Boromir had already said his formal farewells the night before, and Tíniel had quietly said goodbye to Anita and her family, the only friends of hers who knew she was to leave. Now, only Faramir and Ingold were there to see them off.

Faramir wore a smile, but underneath it Tíniel could see he was troubled. He hugged her tightly.

"Be safe, little sister," he murmured. For once, she didn't correct him, but instead hugged him back.

"And you," she replied. "Here is your chance to show your father the leader you have become."

He released her and put his hands on her shoulders. "We shall see. I shall be Captain of the Guard, but a lonely Captain."

"Your men will take care of you if you take care of them," she said. "And Ingold will always support you."

"But _you_ will be far away. And Boromir…"

She touched his cheek gently. "I shall tell you all about the Elves when I return," she said.

He smiled again and kissed her forehead. "I count on it."

He turned to Boromir. The brothers embraced, and Tíniel could see the years of history, of arguments and laughter and pain and love between them.

"Why do I feel like I am losing you?" Faramir muttered gruffly as he stepped back.

Boromir put his hand on his younger brother's shoulder. "Because you were always a fool," he said, smiling. "You could never lose me, brother. Have I ever failed you?"

"Never," Faramir replied, and they embraced again.

Tíniel turned to Ingold, who smiled and held out his one remaining hand. She grinned and clasped it firmly. "We leave the city in good hands," she said.

"Note the plural," Ingold replied darkly, but then he shook his head and grinned ruefully. "You said that on purpose, didn't you?"

She laughed. "You can expect a multitude of hand-related jokes from here on," she said. "And only because I know you could still disarm me in five seconds, even one-handed."

"You flatter me," he said. "Fortunately for Minas Tirith, my figurative hands shouldn't have too much to do with its governing."

"But you will be there for Faramir when he needs you, and that is enough," she said seriously.

"You remind us of our duties even as you leave," he smiled. "But I know you need not be reminded of yours, so I will say only this: you are strong, and you have courage. Trust in yourself."

"Thank you, Ingold," she said, smiling a little. "I really hope I'll be back to see you again."

"I'll count on it. It's a long road North, but you will remember your home is here."

Tíniel glanced back up at the white city, veiled in mist and half-light. "I suppose it is," she answered quietly. "Farewell, Ingold."

"Goodbye, my friend."

They rode swiftly away from the sting of the partings. When they were an hour out of Minas Tirith, the sun broke over the horizon. Boromir turned in his saddle and gave three short, triumphant blasts on his horn. The sound echoed across the plain and filled Tíniel with gladness.

"Farewell, Minas Tirith," Boromir cried, the breeze whisking his words away. "We'll be back!"

Tíniel laughed, a laugh of joy and exhilaration, and echoed the cry. "We'll be back!"

* * *

 **And we're off! A huge thank you for all the love I received this week; our bores are back up and running, so fortunately we have water again. But temperatures have constantly been above 40°C, and our dam is less than 1% full. Thirsty times.**

 **But seriously. Please, please leave a review and tell me what you thought of the chapter. Assuming I have my crap together, see you next week!**

 **S**


	11. Tharbad

**11 — THARBAD**

* * *

 _Two months later_

The setting sun cast their shadows long as they approached the ruined township of Tharbad. It drew a shimmering line of fire on the Greyflood River below them, a line that seemed to point a finger East over the mountains. It cast an eerie red light on the dilapidated stone buildings which had once made up the bustling traders' town, but which were now homes only for the webs of spiders.

Tíniel led the way across the river at the crossing, shading her eyes and studying the silent ruins warily.

"There were once boats here," said Boromir when they reached the other bank of the river, breaking the quiet. "Boats that carried the merchants and their wares. They traded everything – metals and ores from the mountains, cloth from the North, spice from the South. The lands by the Greyflood were once rich and fertile." He cast a wary glance over the barren lands around them. "Or so the writings say."

"What happened?" asked Tíniel as she dismounted.

"Orcs, I suppose," Boromir replied. "One day, Tharbad was alive and thriving. The next, a ship found it sacked and burning. But that was long ago, before even my father was born."

Many years may have passed, but time had not lessened the haunted atmosphere of the town. A wind had picked up, and it whistled through the buildings, causing broken shutters to creak ominously on their hinges. Tíniel shivered and felt for the hilt of her sword. What a coward she was. It was just the wind, she told herself. Only the wind.

"Is all well?" Boromir asked, coming up quietly beside her and making her jump.

"Of course," she said quickly. "Just… something here is strange."

He glanced up at the darkening sky. "I feel it too," he muttered, but then shook his head. "Come, let us find a place to rest for the night. You can take first watch."

She rolled her eyes at his total lack of chivalry, though she doubted he would see it in the dusky light. But she didn't really mind; Boromir had done far more than his fair share of the work over the past few weeks. Though she was no stranger to travel, the land this far North was a mystery to her. Boromir served as her guide, her compass, and the one familiar thing that stayed constant amidst the changing landscape.

They had passed through Edoras on their way North. Éowyn had embraced her enthusiastically, seeming truly glad to see her again. Théodred and Éomer had been gone on a mission with their éored and had not yet returned. Boromir and Tíniel had planned to stay no more than three nights in the city, but they ended up only staying one, for the King had changed much since they had last seen him.

"I sometimes forget that he was once a different man," Éowyn had whispered to her, anguished. "He has truly changed, Tíniel… and I cannot tell why. It's like a sickness, like he ages at thrice the speed that he should. What can I do?"

"You must keep Gríma from him," she had replied. "That slimy, serpent-tongued weasel thrives as the King withers, that much is plain to see."

Éowyn shook her head, her face hopeless. "I have no power to do such a thing," she said hopelessly. "I am afraid, my friend, and now more trapped than ever before."

But Tíniel couldn't stay to help. They departed hastily from the melancholy Hall, and their path led them through the Gap of Rohan and over the Ford of Isen. The Gap was a wide, grassy plain which swept through a break in the line of mountains. It was as though a few of the jagged teeth had been knocked out, and now Tíniel and Boromir were crossing into the mouth.

The words spoken by Akhund many years ago had begun running through her mind as they rode. " _You will go North, willing or no_ ," he had said, that infuriating, fatherly twinkle ever in his eyes. Was this what he had meant? Was her journey to the fabled land of the Elves simply fulfilling the prophecy? She refused to consider it, relying instead on Boromir's conversation to distract her from her thoughts and make the long road easier. And it truly was a long road; they had followed the old North-South Road at a steady pace, but even after two months they were far away from their destination. At least reaching Tharbad gave her some sense of progress.

* * *

Tíniel sat by the door of the half-collapsed house they had chosen to sleep in, wrapped in her blanket and staring into the night. The world outside was invisible in the dark, but though their encounters with orcs and goblins had been few so far, she couldn't help but feel on edge.

Wisps of cloud scudded across the sky, and she shivered. The wind was rising again, and it howled plaintively through the buildings. Why had they stopped for the night in such a haunted spot? The woods would have served that purpose nicely, but instead they were here, and Tíniel had the horrifying feeling that they weren't alone.

Her heartbeat grew faster and faster. The wind wailed, sounding eerily like a human baby. Tíniel heard a skittering noise in an alleyway to her left. The feeling that something was watching her grew in her chest, until she couldn't take it anymore.

"Boromir!" she hissed, rising and shedding her blanket. "Boromir, wake up!"

He grunted and sat up swiftly, clutching at his sword. "What is it?" he mumbled rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Is it my watch?"

"Not yet," she replied, suddenly ashamed. Since when had she become the kind of person that balked at shadows?

Boromir frowned. "Then why –"

He was cut off suddenly by a piercing shriek of terror from just outside the house.

"My horse," Tíniel gasped. She leapt up and ran outside, Boromir still trying to untangle himself from his blankets. But she was too late; both horses were galloping away into the night.

Boromir skidded around the corner of the building and almost crashed into her. "What – where are the horses?" he exclaimed.

"Gone," she said, dumbfounded. She drew her sword. "But that is impossible. I tethered them both securely…"

Boromir stared at her with wide eyes. "So someone..."

"Someone must have set them loose," she finished grimly.

"Someone or some _thing_ ," Boromir said, drawing his sword too and looking around warily. "We should get out of here, now."

"Agreed," she said, but at that moment Boromir's eyes widened and he fell to his knees, crying out. Tíniel tried to move to help him, but she found she couldn't; her feet were suddenly mired to the ground. The wind shrieked through the town, and her head began spinning. All she could see was darkness, then the moon, then Boromir – his head cradled in his hands, groaning… then in a flash he was gone, and the moon was gone, and there was only darkness.

 _She was in the desert, and the clouds raced overhead. Borund stood before her, glaring at her. Blood was dripping from a shallow wound on his shoulder._

" _You are not listening, Tchakhura!" he said. "Listen!"_

" _I am trying!" she cried. "I am trying to listen!"_

 _He shook his head in frustration. "They try to talk, but you shut your ears, you turn your face away," he said. "Let them speak to you. You have been chosen."_

 _"Chosen for what?" she pleaded._

 _"Chosen to be the greatest," he said, the bleeding from his shoulder somehow getting faster._

 _"That's ridiculous," she said, and he bared his teeth in a smile._

 _"I cannot lie..." he said. Then, as though he were built of sand, the wind blew him away and h_ _e disappeared, leaving her alone. Except… she could hear voices, whispering in the sky above her._

"Seek for the Sword that was broken _…"_

" _I know," she muttered. "I am seeking it, we're going to find it –"_

"Fleeing from hate and hiding from fear…"

" _No!" she said, her heart beginning to pound in her chest. "I am not fleeing! I do not flee any longer!"_

"Part of two worlds, yet torn between…"

 _The wind that had swept Borund away began stirring around her, toying with her tunic. She clapped her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut, but it made no difference; the voice only grew louder._

"A light to be in a darkness unseen…"

" _The prophecy is dead!" she shouted, the wind whipping up around her. "It is dead, I have escaped it!"_

 _The wind forced her to her knees, and she cried out. It held her down; every part of her body was weighted down, and it was impossible to move. She gritted her teeth and fought to lift her head, but when she did, her breath caught in her throat. There was another man before her now, a white-skinned man who she'd never seen before. He, too, was on his knees, struggling to rise; a silver, winged crown was on his head. He groaned, the wind pushing him down as it had her, howling around them, pushing them down, but he forced his head up. The second their eyes met, the wind died. They were alone, on their knees, in the still silence of the desert. Hesitantly, the man reached out a hand. After a moment, she did the same._

 _The tips of his fingers brushed hers, and she jerked away. He wasn't a dream, not even a doom dream. He was real._

" _Who are you?" she whispered._

But as the words left her lips, the landscape dissolved around her, and the man disappeared. She fell forward onto all fours and threw up. Gradually, as the buzzing faded from her ears and her vision stopped spiralling, she became aware of Boromir kneeling beside her, his hand on her shoulder.

"Tíniel," he said urgently. "Tíniel, can you hear me? Are you alright?"

"We must leave this place," she rasped, taking a mouthful of water and spitting it on the ground. "This town is haunted. We must leave."

"I know," he said, helping her stand. "But we're on foot. Can you do it?"

"Yes," she said, leaning on him heavily. "We just need to get out. Let's go. Boromir, let's go."

And together, they stumbled out of Tharbad and into the night.

* * *

Boromir wiped sweat from his brow and shaded his eyes from the bright morning sun. "This is where my knowledge fails me," he said.

"Don't lie," said Tíniel, coming up behind him. "You've been lost for three days now."

"Not true!" he shot back, then relented. "Well, alright. Maybe two."

She smiled and followed his gaze out across the landscape. The way had been long and hard by foot, but now they were supposedly near their goal. All they had to do was _find_ it.

"We can assume it is a valley," said Boromir. " _Imladris_ translates to 'valley' in the Common tongue."

"The fact that it is referred to as 'the hidden valley' would also suggest that Imladris is, in fact, hidden," Tíniel said.

Boromir rolled his eyes at her sarcasm. "As you wish. But where is the damned thing?"

"If only I could have useful dreams about how to find magical valleys, rather than strange white men touching my hand," she huffed.

Boromir looked at her carefully. "It still comes to you?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Every night. But I am sleeping better."

"And still you have no idea who this man is, if he's really real?"

"None," she said. "But he is real, and dreaming of me like I dream of him. And he seems just as confused as I, whoever he is."

"Great. More mysteries."

"Well, that one can wait for later. Where do we go now? Shall we continue North, or change course?"

Boromir sighed. "I do not know," he muttered, turning back to survey the land before them. "I suppose we –"

He broke off suddenly, and Tíniel's hand went to the hilt of her sword. "What is it?" she asked.

"No, nothing," he muttered, shading his eyes. "Just… do you see that?"

Tíniel squinted against the brightness and after a few moments, saw it too. "It's a speck," she said, smiling at a memory. "Come on!"

They set off at a rapid pace in pursuit of the speck. It was drawing closer to them too, so the distance closed within an hour. It appeared to be a farmer, driving a cart drawn by a mule. Boromir hailed him when they were close enough, and he trundled to a halt.

"I don't want no trouble, now," the farmer said suspiciously, fingering a rusty dagger at his belt. His accent was strong, and Tíniel had difficulty deciphering his words.

"And we ask for none," Boromir replied, spreading his hands. "Only directions. Do you know which way lies Imladris, the house of Elrond?"

"House of who, now?"

"Where the Elves live," Tíniel tried.

"What, Rivendell, you mean?" the farmer scratched his beard. "I've never seen it, not I. But I know the Elves well enough, and those Rangers that go about with them. Rivendell lies due north of here, so they say. Aye, now, that's a place for Elves and singing, not for the likes of you."

He looked them once over, taking in the worn and dirty travelling clothes and weary faces.

"We shall see," Boromir replied politely. "Due North, did you say?"

"Aye," the man replied. "Should be one or two days by foot. But be warned, the Elvish folk don't take too kindly to them that have _bad intentions_."

"Then we have nothing to fear." Boromir said, and inclined his head. "We thank you and wish you well."

The farmer sniffed and spat over the side of the cart. "Keep them weapons on you," he said. "There's no telling who's around these parts in times like these… and good morning." He flicked the reins and left them in a cloud of dust.

"So," said Tíniel. "We are close!"

"So it seems," Boromir said. They looked at each other, grinned simultaneously and set off due North.

* * *

 _She was in the desert, forced to her knees by the howling wind and the weight on her head. She knew what would happen, what course the dream would run, and though she could delay it, she couldn't fight it. Slowly, she dragged her head up._

 _He was there._

 _He looked up at her, recognition in his eyes. The silver crown was on his head. For a moment, they simply stared at each other; then, taking a deep breath, she reached out her hand._

 _His brows furrowed in confusion. Before now, he had always been the one to reach out to her, and she had always pulled away. But before she could change her mind, he took her hand in his. Suddenly, the weight on her head disappeared and the wind dropped, leaving them in absolute silence. Slowly, hand in hand, they got to their feet._

 _The man let out the breath he had been holding in. She looked up at him; he was taller than she'd expected, taller even than Boromir. His eyes were grey like the sea._

" _Who are you?" he whispered._

 _She shook her head, frowning in confusion. "I don't know…"_

* * *

Four days later, they still hadn't found the hidden valley. They were in some unknown wood, and Tíniel could hear the trickling of water somewhere to their left. She could also see the light of a sinking sun filtering through the whispering leaves of the trees.

"Boromir," she called wearily. "We need to stop for the night."

He turned back to look at her. "Do not give up on our quest so easily."

She scowled. "Who said I was giving up?"

"Your face. Come on, Imladris cannot be far."

"And if it doesn't exist?" She threw her hands up in exasperation. "For all we know, we've been chasing a shadow."

"The man, the farmer! Not four days ago, he told us where to find the valley! What more proof do you need?"

"He said one or two days, Boromir, and it's been twice that. I wish to find this Elrond and get to the bottom of these riddles as much as you. I do." She sighed. "But we can't keep following mere rumours."

He took a step toward her and held her gaze. "What do you suggest?" he asked evenly. "Shall we turn around and walk – _walk_ – the hundreds of miles back home? Shall we –"

He cut off abruptly, his eyes flicking to something behind her and his hand going to the hilt of his sword. Tíniel whirled, doing the same, but froze when she saw a cowled man holding a drawn bow, its arrow pointed directly at her chest.

"Not so fast, if you please," the man said pleasantly. Exchanging a glance, Boromir and Tíniel both raised their hands, palms up.

"Who are you?" Boromir said cautiously.

"You are not quite in a position to pose questions, my friend," the man said, but he stepped forward and lowered his bow slightly. "Who are _you_?"

Boromir glanced again at Tíniel, then looked back to the stranger. "I am Boromir of Gondor," he said, "and I mean no harm to any here. We only seek the hidden valley, Imladris."

The stranger inclined his head thoughtfully. "And your companion?"

"Tíniel," she said. The tall stranger regarded her for a moment, then suddenly laughed – a strange, melodious sound.

"A woman," he said with amusement. "Forgive my not noticing. You are very beautiful."

She frowned, not trusting his strange words for a moment. "We seek Imladris," she said. "If you know of it, we'd appreciate some direction. If you do not, then let us be on our way."

"Of course," the stranger said. He smoothly returned his arrow to the quiver on his back, then lowered his cowl. Tíniel caught her breath when she saw his face; it was peculiar, foreign, and the eyes frightened her. "You have travelled far, Steward's son. It seems fate or some secret doom has led you and your companion here." He gestured for them to follow him down the path. "I am Elrohir, of the very place you seek. Welcome to Imladris."

"So it is real," Boromir breathed, then he laughed aloud and took Tíniel's hand. "It is real! We did it!"

She couldn't help but grin back at him. They followed Elrohir through the trees, the sound of running water growing stronger, until they broke out of the wood. As the golden light of the setting sun washed over her, Tíniel caught her breath. Below them lay the fabled Hidden Valley.

The House of Elrond seemed to grow out of the very landscape in which it nestled. She could see soft lights flickering in its open corridors; she supposed it didn't rain very much here. Behind the buildings, sheer cliffs of grey stone rose to a great height. A waterfall shrouded them in white spray.

"It is magnificent," Tíniel breathed, and Elrohir smiled his strange smile.

"Thank you," he said.

"Is this where you live?" Boromir asked him, as they began their descent.

"From time to time."

Tíniel stopped in her tracks. "You – you are an _Elf_?" she whispered. Impossibly, Elrohir heard her.

"Of course," he replied. "You have never met one of my kind before?"

Tíniel went to reply, but then paused. Extraordinary hearing, quiet movements, strange eyes, and that foreign quality in the voice… _Remuil,_ she thought. "Only one, and years ago," she said aloud. Boromir glanced at her and raised his eyebrows, but she shook her head. _A story for another time_.

The sun had sunk below the horizon by the time they reached the gates of Imladris. They followed Elrohir through the archway, where they were met by a party of two people; one Elf and a tall, bearded man wearing a hat. Something about this man triggered something in Tíniel's memory, and she stared at him guardedly.

"Welcome, friends, to the Last Homely House," said one of the Elves after Elrohir had whispered something in his ear. "Indeed, Fate has been busy gathering her pieces. Now they shall play. I am Elrond, master of this house."

Boromir bowed deeply, and Tíniel followed suit.

"Boromir, son of Denethor II, Ruling Steward of Gondor," he introduced himself.

"And I am Tchakhura Makhyë of Khand, called Tíniel in the North," she said. Two sets of eyes turned curiously to her, and the bearded man shook his head slowly.

"My apologies, dear girl," he said, "but I did not understand half of what you just said."

Her lips twitched and she looked to Boromir. "Maybe you can say it in a Northman way?"

"My lords, she merely told you her name, Tchakhura Makhyë, and that she hails from Khand," Boromir translated, with atrocious pronunciation.

"Yet you go by an Elvish name?" Elrond said curiously. " _Tíniel_ , it means –"

" _She who is silent_. So I have been told," Tíniel finished wryly.

Elrond smiled. "In any case, you are welcome here. I know you have journeyed far and would like to rest, and be assured you will have ample opportunity. But tomorrow shall be held a council, and I should like you to attend." Tíniel and Boromir exchanged a significant look.

" _There shall be counsels taken_ ," Boromir said. It seemed the prophecy had spoken truly.

"However, I would like to ask some questions of you both before then. Will you come in? Rooms will be readied for you, and your packs taken there."

They followed Elrond and the man up along a walkway. Something about the bearded, pointy-hatted stranger was urgently familiar to Tíniel, yet she couldn't quite place what. But the niggling feeling was pushed aside by the relief she felt to have come to the end of their journey. She longed for sleep and a wash.

At last they came to another archway that opened into a high-roofed room filled with books. Elrond beckoned for them all to sit in great armchairs clustered around a blazing fire. Tiniel felt dwarfed in hers.

"So," said Elrond, leaning forward in his chair. "Why have you made the long, arduous journey to Rivendell, and on foot?"

"We had horses at first, but we lost them at Tharbad," Boromir said. "We have come because of a doom dream."

The bearded man frowned. "I beg your pardon — a _doom dream_?"

Tíniel suppressed a smile. "That is what we call dreams that are not dreams, but visions. They are like dreamlike, but there is something different, something… _heavy_ about them. A sense of doom, if you will."

"You describe visions sent by the Valar," Elrond said. "Do they come to you often, Lady Tíniel?"

She shrugged. "Most nights, these days."

"And they provide guidance? Warning? Aid?" asked the bearded man.

"Guidance? Hardly," she replied. "Doom dreams rarely make sense to me. They are jumbled images, like pieces of a puzzle. Sometimes someone speaks to me, but the words are riddles."

"The doom dream was a prophecy, I think," Boromir said. "It came once each to Tíniel and myself, and many times to my brother Faramir. It runs thus:

 _Seek for the Sword that was broken:_

 _In Imladris it dwells;_

 _There shall be counsels taken_

 _Stronger than Morgul-spells._

 _There shall be shown a token_

 _That Doom is near at hand,_

 _For Isildur's Bane shall waken,_

 _And the Halfling forth shall stand._ "

"So this prophecy instructed you to come North," said Elrond.

"I suppose it did," replied Boromir. "And so we have come to seek counsel, to give news of Gondor and to seek out her allies. War will soon be upon us."

 _You will go North, willing or no,_ Akhund had told Tíniel. He had been right, more than she'd expected; right about a number of things. Except that her prophecy had let her be for years…

"Akhund!" She blurted out suddenly, staring at the bearded man.

To his credit, he only blinked and said, "Pardon me?"

"You are the one – the man I was to speak to, if ever I found him. I am to give you a message," she said animatedly, the memories of the rainy night in the City of Corsairs flooding back to her.

"Then let us have it," the man said.

"Akhund told me that one day I may come across a man who wore a silver scarf and a blue pointed hat, with a long beard and big eyebrows."

The man furrowed them now. " _Big_ eyebrows?"

She shrugged. "I don't know how to say it, exactly… like a bush?"

"Bushy," Boromir supplied helpfully.

"Bushy eyebrows," said Tíniel. "In any case, I am sure this man is you. I am to tell you that… Pallando sent me. He wishes you well."

It was as though she had told them that someone had died. The bearded man stood suddenly, his eyes wide. Elrond gripped the arms of his chair and went pale.

"You are sure he said _Pallando_?" he asked.

"Of course," she said. "But my people call him Akhund."

"And you," said the bearded man, turning to Boromir. "Were you sent by him as well?" Boromir shook his head, his eyes wide.

"Well then," the man continued, "I think you will be glad to be allowed to rest at last. As for your friend Tíniel… I have some further questions."

Boromir rose and made a short bow. He glanced at her questioningly, but she nodded her reassurance and he turned and exited the room.

"I have a question first," Tíniel began when neither of her companions showed any signs of wishing to break the silence. "Who are you? You are not an Elf, I think?"

The bearded man nodded. "Forgive me my rudeness; I am called Gandalf by most, Mithrandir by some, and many names by others. And I am not an Elf, but neither am I a man. I am of the same kind as your Pallando."

"A magic man," she breathed, looking at him anew, and he nodded.

"You say Pallando sent you," Elrond said, his brow furrowed.

"Yes, that is what he told me to tell Gandalf. But he didn't really send me, he more… directed me. I was angry at the time, and I didn't want to listen to what he was saying, but since then… well, he spoke truly."

"Why were you angry?" Gandalf asked.

Tíniel hesitated, suddenly unwilling to reveal her dark secret to these men. But she had come to Imladris for answers, after all, so she shook her head ruefully and began. "I come from Khand, as I told you before," she said. "I was the firstborn of a powerful chief. His heir. Akhund came to our camp one night years ago, and he spoke a prophecy that condemned me."

"What was it?" Elrond asked softly.

" _Fleeing from hate and hiding from fear,_

 _Betrayer of those who hold them most dear:_

 _First for life,_

 _Next for gold,_

 _Last to follow what heart has told._

 _Light to be in a darkness unseen,_

 _Part of two worlds, yet torn between,_

 _The greatest will be, despite hatred and scorn,_

 _The lowest amongst you, the Khondyë's firstborn._ "

She clenched her fists tightly, hoping they wouldn't notice the slight shaking in her hands. Acid scorched the back of her throat. "At least, this is how I think it would be said in the Common Tongue."

Gandalf shook his head. "This prophecy came to me many years ago," he said in wonder. "And to Saruman too. I had no idea what it could mean, and I forgot it. But it seems that the vision came to Pallando as well, and… here you are!"

"I am afraid I do not understand," Elrond said. "How could a prophecy, merely theoretical, condemn you?"

"I am the Khondyë's firstborn," Tíniel said grimly, the memories of her escape replaying in her mind as she spoke. "The prophecy says that I will betray those who I love most. Betrayal is the greatest crime of all in my culture, even if it has not yet come to pass. I was sentenced to death."

"That is not all the prophecy says," Elrond pointed out. "It also says you will be a light in an unseen darkness, that you will become the greatest among your people."

Tíniel went to reply, but then hesitated. It was true, she had rarely considered the latter part of the prophecy over the years. The predictions of betrayal had been more important to her.

"You said it happened years ago," Gandalf pressed. "Have you fulfilled any part of the prophecy since then?"

Tíniel felt the nausea return. "I fled my tribe and found my way to the City of Corsairs. I joined a ship's crew for a time, then I was captured and taken to Minas Tirith. I betrayed the people to whom I was the most dear – my tribe – because I did not kill myself. It is required by Khandi Law to commit suicide rather than to be held prisoner in enemy territory."

" _First for life_ ," said Elrond thoughtfully. "And since then?"

"Nothing but doom dreams. I believe the prophecy has faded away, that it is no more. But I came here hoping you could shed some light on my... predicament."

The Elf studied her for a moment. "It is curious that the Valar have chosen you as a vessel for their communication."

"Not so strange, in my opinion," said Gandalf. "Our friend Tíniel is the subject of a prophecy which is of greatest gravity, of that I have no doubt. Why else would it have been sent to all the Istari, instead of just Pallando? The Valar watch you, my dear, and your doom dreams are evidence of their efforts to help and guide you."

"But they hardly guide me," Tíniel said, becoming frustrated. "They make me ill, and they are never clear. Recently, I dream of a man in the desert with a crown on his head. What does that mean?"

"Who can tell?" Elrond said. "Your prophecy and your visions are all riddles. But riddles may be unfurled. You may rest assured that the Valar seem to be watching over you, and that a great fate lies before you."

"What a comfort," she said sourly. Gandalf smiled.

"In the meantime," Elrond continued, "I would like you to speak at our council tomorrow on behalf of the Eastern and Southern peoples. If Gandalf is right, this prophecy will be more important than you suspect. Perhaps it is time it saw the light of day."

"For now, you should rest," said Gandalf, rising and clapping her on the shoulder in a fatherly way. "A bath wouldn't go amiss, I think."

Tíniel couldn't help but smile. "Apologies for the smell. It's been a long road."

* * *

 _The desert was eerily silent around them as they stood facing each other, hand in hand. She noticed nothing around her, but stared into the stranger's eyes as though she could read something from them._

" _Who are you?" he asked, as he did every night._

" _I don't know," came her reply, the same as always. "Who are you?"_

" _I don't know," he whispered._

 _No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't remember her own name. She knew she had one; more than one, even, but none of them came to her lips. She had no sense of identity, only a swirling mass of memories and faces that couldn't take shape. But as she looked down at their entwined hands, hers brown and his white, she knew they were looking at the hands of the people they needed to become. In the lonely desert together, they were themselves as they were intended to be._

" _I will find you," he said, his grey eyes solemn. "Then I'll know what this is, and what I need to do. I'll find you."_

 _She shook her head. "How? We only exist here, in this place that isn't real." She looked up at him again, her eyes searching and afraid. "Are you real?"_

" _Yes," he replied earnestly. "Yes. And I will find you."_

* * *

 **Are you confused? Tíniel's confused. The guy in the dream is confused. Even Elrond's confused, but he brushes it off because Elves are dope like that. Please, review and tell me what you thought of the chapter, of the story so far... complain if you're confused, mansplain if you're not.**

 **Updates will be choppy in the coming months, as I'm moving to the city. Sorry...**

 **One more thing – you all know what's coming up. We're in Rivendell, there's gonna be a Ring, there's gonna be a boyband to guard it, there's gonna be baddies at Amon Hen... there's _maybe_ gonna be a death in the family. How do we feel about Boromir? Shall he live, or do you condemn him to death? **

**S**


	12. Many Meetings

**12 — MANY MEETINGS**

 **Note: many parts of dialogue in this chapter are taken verbatim from Tolkien's _The Lord of the Rings_. Note also that some quotations from the book have been shortened or paraphrased for length and clarity, so if some of it sounds like crap, you can blame me. Let's get this show on the road.**

* * *

Tíniel woke at sunrise, the novelty of having a soft bed keeping her from falling back to sleep. She stood and stretched her arms above her head, then moved to the window. The river they had forded yesterday carved its path noisily through the ravine and the steep, climbing woods. The pale autumn sun rose above the mountains on the far Eastern horizon, slanting through the light morning mist and giving Imladris an ethereal, yellow-gold glow.

The valley was beautiful. Little paths wound through the gardens, which held an abundance of flowers and trees that Tíniel had never seen in her life. At the edge of the gardens, the forest stretched for a distance, covering the land with yellows and reds. The Northern slopes were covered in dark green pines. She closed her eyes and listened to the birds warble over the gentle roar of the waterfalls.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" said Boromir, coming up beside her. She glanced up at him; he was wearing formal dress, as well as the silver collar embedded with a white jewel that marked him as the Steward's heir.

"When did you come in?" she asked. "Ever heard of knocking?"

"Apparently the doors don't lock here," he replied with a slight smile. "Was the bed too soft for you as well?"

"Yes," she said, looking back out the window. "But you're right. It is beautiful."

"It reminds me of Minas Tirith. An island of light in a black sea. We will stand when all else has fallen."

Tíniel bit her lip. "Don't fool yourself, Boromir," she said gently. "Minas Tirith is the closest major stronghold to the Enemy's lands. We will be the first to fall, he will make sure of it."

Boromir looked at her, his eyes fiercely determined. "Not while I am standing," he said. "Never while I defend its walls. Do you stand with me?"

At that moment, Tíniel wished with all her heart that she had never met Akhund the magic man, that the Valar had chosen somebody else for their damned prophecy, that she had never gone to Minas Tirith, and that the man before had not become the most dear to her heart. Because for every minute that she loved him, there was the chance she would betray him. Her sad eyes met his fierce ones.

"Need you even ask?" she answered.

At that moment, a clear bell rang out across the valley.

"The summons for the Council," Boromir said. He looked down at her dubiously. "Is that what you're going to wear?"

Tíniel tried not to laugh. "This is a _nightgown_ , Boromir," she said. "Of course I am going to change, stupid. But not with you in here!"

He flushed slightly and rolled his eyes. "You have five minutes. I'll wait outside, and we'll go together."

As soon as the door shut behind him, Tíniel rummaged through her pack for her spare tunic and wiped the dust and mud from her boots. Elrond had asked her to speak on behalf of the Eastern peoples, and although the dark red was more suited for battle than Boromir's silver-embroidered ceremonial clothes, it was, she supposed, the uniform of her office as Makhyë. It was a pity she didn't have a _vadi_ to complete the look. Quickly tugging and patting her braids into place, she opened the door and joined Boromir.

He led her through the winding corridors of the House of Elrond to a porch. It was facing South-East, lit by the bright morning sunlight. Many people were already seated in a circle around it. There was a number of Elves and Men milling about, and also bearded Dwarves who sat and muttered amongst themselves. Gandalf had come and brought with him two children. Oddly, in this strange, mismatched crowed, Tíniel felt less out of place than she did back in Minas Tirith.

In the centre of the circle was Elrond, wearing a silver circlet on his head and speaking to a tall man who wore a worn travelling cloak. Boromir and Tíniel approached them now, and Elrond turned to face them.

"Greetings again, Boromir son of Denethor, and Tíniel of Khand. I trust you rested well," he said warmly.

"We did, thank you," Boromir replied.

"That isn't strictly true," she muttered quietly, but if Elrond heard her, he smoothly ignored her.

"Please, take your seats. The council will begin soon." He turned back to the man he had been speaking to before. Tíniel bowed slightly to Elrond and went to nod politely at the stranger, but suddenly she froze where she stood. It was no stranger.

It was the man from her dream.

She couldn't move; her heart was thundering in her chest, and there was a ringing in her ears. He was _here_ , standing right before her. It was impossible, but she was sure that she wasn't dreaming. Why was the man here? Had the doom dream been some kind of warning? She was unable to look away from him, but at least he seemed equally as shocked. He stared at her, his mouth slightly agape, a mixture of confusion and wariness in his eyes. He was dressed in a ragged grey travelling cloak and had the appearance of a scruffy wanderer. But there was a glint in his eyes that struck her as distinctly dangerous. Every nerve in her body stood on edge, and every instinct prepared for a fight.

But Boromir touched her elbow, and the spell was broken. She drew in a shuddering breath and jerked away, not taking her eyes off the man. He was mirroring her movements, and they separated to sit at opposing sides of the circle. Tíniel took her seat next to Boromir and warily held the man's gaze. There was one difference between dreaming about him and seeing him now; this time, she knew exactly who she was.

"Who is that?" Boromir asked quietly.

"I do not know his name," she murmured, "but he is the man from the doom dream."

"The one you've had every night since Tharbad?"

"Yes."

"Oh my."

"Exactly."

"What are you going to do?"

"I do not know, but I don't trust him more than I'd trust a snake."

Boromir studied the man for a moment, then spoke in a low voice. "Be careful, Tíniel."

"I know."

Elrond took his place, and almost immediately silence fell. He smiled around at them, and Tíniel was struck again by how strange and old his eyes seemed. He drew one of the children to sit in the chair beside him and spoke:

"Here, my friends, is Frodo son of Drogo. Few have ever come here through greater peril or on an errand more urgent."

"Try me," Boromir whispered beside her, and her lips twitched.

Elrond began introducing all those around the circle. "Here are Glóin and Gimli of Esgaroth," he said. Two bearded Dwarves nodded solemnly. "Here are Glorfindel, Erestor and others of my household; here is Galdor, on errand from the Grey Havens on behalf of Círdan the Shipwright; here is Legolas son of Thranduil of Northern Mirkwood; here is Aragorn of the Rangers of the North." The man from Tíniel's dreams nodded acknowledgement, and her eyes found him again. He had a strange name.

" _Aragorn_ ," she breathed, trying it out. He glanced up and their eyes met. She resisted the urge to let her hand drift to the hilt of her sword as they stared each other down.

"Here is Gandalf, known to many," Elrond went on. "Here is Boromir son of Denethor the Ruling Steward of Gondor, and his companion Tíniel of Khand in the South. I bid you all welcome. It is here, I hope, that your questions will be answered."

Elrond began to speak of the happenings of the world. They were no news to Tíniel and Boromir; it was plain enough that the evil in the East was growing in power. But she was interested to hear the accounts of other individuals. Glóin the Dwarf gave an account of what he called a Black Rider to Dain, his king.

"About a year ago," he said, his voice a low grumble, "a messenger came to Dain, not from our kin in Moria but from Mordor: a horseman in the night, who called Dain to his gate. The Lord Sauron the Great, so he said, wished for our friendship. Rings he would give for it, such as he gave of old. And then his fell voice was lowered, and he would have sweetened it if he could. 'As a small token only of your friendship, Sauron asks this,' he said: 'that you should find a thief, a hobbit' – such was his word – 'and get from him, willing or no, a little ring, the littlest of rings, that once he stole. Find only news of the thief, whether he still lives and where, and you will have great rewards and lasting friendship from the Lord. Refuse, and things will not seem so well.'"

Tíniel frowned. What in the world was a _hobbit_? And what would Mekakhond want with a ring?

"You have done well to come," said Elrond. "You will hear today all that you need to understand the purposes of the Enemy. The Ring! What shall we do with the Ring, the least of rings, the trifle that Sauron fancies? That is the doom that today we must deem. That is the purpose for which you are come here, strangers from distant lands. Each of us must take our part in this tale of the Ring; and now I will begin that tale, though others shall end it."

Tíniel listened closely as Elrond told of Mekakhond – or Sauron – and the Rings of power. They had been forged many thousands of years ago by Elven smiths whom Sauron had seduced and ensnared. But he betrayed them, creating a Ring so powerful that it was the master of all the other rings, except the three that belonged to the Elves. The Ring, Elrond said, gave Sauron great and terrible power.

Then he spoke of Númenor, a country across the sea. Kings of men came from that place – well, at least the kings of the white men, Tíniel thought. She'd read tales of them in Faramir's books. There were Elendil and his sons, Anàrion and Isildur. When she heard this last name, she turned to Boromir. His eyes were shining.

"The doom dream," he whispered. "Isildur's bane!"

"But what _is_ it?" she whispered back.

Elrond began to speak of an alliance between Men and Elves thousands of years ago in an attempt to overthrow the Enemy.

"I beheld the last combat on the slopes of Orodruin, or Mount Doom as they name it in the South; there Gil-galad the Elven-king died, and the Lord Elendil of Numenor fell, and Narsil his sword broke beneath him; but Sauron himself was overthrown, and Isildur cut the Ring from his hand with the hilt-shard of his father's sword, and took it for his own," he said.

At this, Boromir leaned forward and spoke, his voice clear. "So that is what became of the Ring!" he said. "I have heard of the Great Ring of the Enemy, but we always believed it perished in that battle. Isildur took it! That is news indeed!"

"Alas! Yes," Elrond said, shaking his head. "Isildur took it, as should not have been. It should have been cast into Orodruin's fire where it was made. But Isildur would not heed our counsel. Whether we would or no, he took it to treasure it as weregild for the deaths of his brother and father."

" _Weregild_?" Tíniel whispered to Boromir.

"It means blood money," he muttered back. "Payment for death or injury."

"But the Ring betrayed him to his death, and so it is named Isildur's Bane," Elrond continued.

"A Ring," she whispered to Boromir, her eyes lighting up. "Isildur's Bane is a Ring."

"Not yet since has the broken sword of Elendil been reforged," Elrond said. "After the Alliance, the world fell into wariness. In the North, the city of Annúminas fell into ruin, and the folk of Arnor dwindled. In the South, the realm of Gondor long endured ere it fell. Their chief city was Osgiliath, Citadel of the Stars; Minas Ithil they built in the mountains of shadow, but that has long since been taken by the Enemy and has become Minas Morgul, the Tower of Sorcery. Minas Anor, now called Minas Tirith, they built also. Between these two towers, Osgiliath has fallen into ruin. The White Tree, planted from the seed brought by Isildur, has now withered and died. So it has been for many lives of Men. But the lords of Minas Tirith still fight on, defying our enemies."

Tíniel lifted her chin, pride for her city rising within her. Boromir stood up before the company.

"Give me leave, Master Elrond," he said, "to say more of Gondor, for few of you know of our doings there, I think, and so can guess little at the danger they should be in should Gondor fall at last."

It was certainly true, Tíniel reflected; it was Gondor that bore the brunt of orc raids and attacks from Mordor. They were the bulwark of the West, as she had discussed with Boromir just that morning. If Gondor failed, the rest of the world would be in peril indeed.

"The Nameless Enemy has arisen again," Boromir continued. "The power of the Black Land grows, and we are hard pressed. Last summer, sudden war came upon us, and we were swept away. We were outnumbered, for Mordor has allied itself with Easterlings and the cruel Haradrim."

Tíniel couldn't help but wince at this, and shifted in her seat. The Haradrim were not cruel, but she knew Boromir didn't know any better. Again, she caught the eyes of the man from her doom dream across the circle. She stilled, and held his gaze unyieldingly until he looked away.

"But it was not by numbers that we were defeated," Boromir was saying. "A power was there in Osgiliath that I have never felt before or since. It was a great black horseman, a shadow under the moon. Most of our men had fled, and only a remnant of our forces remained to destroy the bridge that connects the two halves of Osgiliath. Only four of us survived by swimming: myself, my brother and two others."

Though his face was expressionless, Tíniel could hear the hint of pain in his voice. The memories still hurt him.

"But still we fight. Our armies hold the Western shores of Osgiliath; and all those who shelter behind us praise us, if they ever hear our name. In these evil times, I have travelled with my friend a hundred and ten days on a hard road. But we have not come to seek allies in war. The might of Elrond is in wisdom, not in weapons, it is said. We have come to ask for counsel and the unravelling of hard words. What meaning do you find in this riddle?

" _Seek for the Sword that was broken:_

 _In Imladris it dwells;_

 _There shall be counsels taken_

 _Stronger than Morgul-spells._

 _There shall be shown a token_

 _That Doom is near at hand,_

 _For Isildur's Bane shall waken,_

 _And the Halfling forth shall stand._ "

He described the doom dream that they'd had and told of their journey to Imladris on the forgotten North-South road. When he had finished speaking, Aragorn stood to face him. He was a little taller than Boromir, and stood as proudly.

"Here in the House of Elrond, more shall be made clear to you," he said. He drew his sword, and murmurs rippled through the company. The sword was splintered into two pieces.

"Here is the Sword that was Broken!" he cried.

Boromir looked at him in wonder. "Who are you, and what have you to do with Minas Tirith?" he asked.

"He is Aragorn son of Arathorn," said Elrond, "and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur of Minas Ithil."

The child beside Elrond leapt up, and Tíniel saw with some alarm that he was not in fact a child, but a round-faced man of childish stature.

"Then it belongs to you, and not to me at all!" he cried.

"It does not belong to either of us," Aragorn replied solemnly, "but you have been chosen to hold it for a while."

"Bring out the Ring, Frodo!" said Gandalf. "Then Boromir and Tíniel can understand the rest of their riddle."

A hush fell. The small man slowly, almost reluctantly reached into his pocket and withdrew his hand. He held it up, and Tíniel saw he was clutching a golden ring.

"Isildur's Bane," she murmured in awe, her eyes drawn to it.

"Indeed," said Elrond.

"And this is the Halfling," said Boromir. He looked at her, his eyes almost afraid. "So the doom of Minas Tirith has come at last."

"The words of the prophecy were not 'the doom of Minas Tirith'," said Aragorn, "but doom and great deeds are certainly at hand. You have seen before you Isildur's Bane, and the shards of the Sword that was broken. You have seen the Halfling, and you are taking counsel here in Imladris. It seems your prophecy is fulfilled."

"The sword of Elendil, and its wielder, would be a help beyond our hope in Gondor – if such a thing could return from the shadows of the past." Boromir said, but Aragorn did not miss the doubtful look Boromir cast over his ragged cloak.

"For my part, I forgive you your doubt," he said, giving a wry half-smile. "My appearance doesn't easily recall recollections of Isildur's splendour. But times are changing. I will come to Minas Tirith."

Hope and realisation dawned on Boromir's face, and Aragorn nodded to him and returned to his seat. Tíniel felt shivers down her spine. They were going to bring back the King – but she and the King were linked by a power that she didn't understand.

She thought on this as the older Halfling, Bilbo, recounted how the Ring had come into his possession by a game of riddles with a slimy creature. What did it mean for her if Aragorn came to Minas Tirith? He had every right; he was the lost king, Isildur's heir. But Minas Tirith was _her_ home now. And she was afraid of him. The Valar had sent her dreams of him, and he clearly had received the dreams too. They were meant to find each other. Or were they warnings to guard against him? She was afraid; nothing good had ever come of her doom dreams.

She tried to listen again. Gandalf was speaking of a traitor, Saruman, who had imprisoned him.

"This is grievous news," said Elrond, his face troubled. "We trusted Saruman, and he is deep in all our councils. The Enemy adds yet another force to his army."

Here was her chance to speak. Her heart pounded in her chest; somehow, it had fallen to her to give a voice to her people.

Tíniel stood. All the eyes of the council turned to her, and she lifted her chin. "You say Saruman has joined Sauron's forces; I will tell you of the others who have done so as well. I am Tchakhura Makhyë, called Tíniel, a princess of Khand." She met Aragorn's scrutinising gaze but did not falter. "My knowledge is years old, but could still be of use. You all know that the people of North and South Harad, the Easterlings and the _variag_ of Khand have joined Sauron's army. What you do not know is that they have done so under threat of immediate obliteration."

There was a murmur among the company and Glóin, the old Dwarf who had spoken before, shook his head. "It makes little difference to us," he said. "We fight whom we must, and we fight to kill, no matter their motivation in joining the Enemy."

"I would expect no less," Tíniel replied. "But to me, it is important that you know this. We who are here call ourselves the Free People of Middle Earth. The Haradrim, the Easterlings, the Khandi; they are Men, but they are not free. When you fight for your freedom, fight for theirs too."

The Elf called Legolas nodded. "How long ago did your people physically join the Enemy?" he asked.

"A little less than four years ago, I guess," she replied. "I know armies of Northern Harad were certainly mobilised by then."

"You guess?" Aragorn spoke up, watching her with suspicion. "How do you not know for sure?"

"I was exiled," she replied tightly.

"A princess, exiled by her own people? And we should trust your word?"

"It's a long story," she said waspishly. "But I do not lie."

"Speak the words of the prophecy, Tíniel," said Elrond, "for they are destined to touch the lives of every being in Middle-earth."

Tíniel froze where she stood. Her stomach clenched and the panic poured in. She swallowed hard. "I – I do not –"

Boromir was frowning. "What prophecy? Tíniel?"

She couldn't speak. Her throat was closing up. Bile coated her throat, and she felt her insides heave. Wave after wave of absolute terror crashed over her. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably, and her breaths came fast.

But she didn't need to recite the prophecy; Gandalf did it for her.

" _Fleeing from hate and hiding from fear,_ " he said, his mild voice suddenly ominous as Akhund's had been all those years ago.

" _Betrayer of those who hold them most dear:_

 _First for life,_

 _Next for gold,_

 _Last to follow what heart has told._

 _Light to be in a darkness unseen,_

 _Part of two worlds, yet torn between,_

 _The greatest will be, despite hatred and scorn,_

 _The lowest amongst you, the Khondyë's firstborn."_

With trembling, fumbling hands, Tíniel felt for the chair behind her and collapsed back into it. She glanced at Boromir, and her heart dropped into her feet; his eyes were filled with confused horror and dawning betrayal. People around them were saying things, wondering, arguing, guessing, but Tíniel couldn't hear them. She fixed her eyes on her hands. She needed to calm down.

When at last her heart rate dropped a fraction and the roaring in her ears had dulled, the council had moved on.

"But now it must be decided," Elrond was saying, "for the hour grows late: what is to be the fate of the Ring?"

"It cannot be held here, or in the Havens, or in Lothlórien, for that is merely postponing the inevitable," Gandalf said.

"If the Ring cannot be kept from him by strength," said Galdor, "then two choices remain to us: to send it over the sea, or to destroy it."

"We cannot send the Ring into the West. For good or for ill, this evil belongs to Middle Earth," Elrond replied. "But it seems to me clear the road we must take. The Ring must be taken into peril – into Mordor. It must be sent into the fire."

There was a long silence, and Tíniel tried to comprehend what she had just heard. Were the Elves mad?

"This is folly," she said, her voice still unsteady. "You have just spent all the morning and half the afternoon telling us of the might and power of this Ring, and now you say we are going to march into Sauron's nest and simply throw it away! What is the meaning of this? Do you not see the chance we have to use the Ring's power as a weapon?"

Gandalf shook his head solemnly. "The Ring itself is evil," he said, "and it ever seeks its master. Do not trust its charms, for it will betray us all to him."

"The Ring must be destroyed. I see no other way. The road may be trod, though it is hard," Elrond said. "But neither strength nor wisdom will carry us far along it. Often runs the course of such deeds: small hands do them while the eyes of the great are elsewhere."

"Very well, very well, Master Elrond!" The old Halfling, Bilbo, got to his feet. "Say no more! It is plain enough what you are pointing at: Bilbo the silly hobbit started this affair, and Bilbo ought to finish it, or finish himself. When ought I to start?"

"Oh, my dear Bilbo," said Gandalf with a smile. "I think your part in this great story is ended, unless as a recorder. Get ready to write a sequel to your book when they come back."

The halfling laughed, delightedly surprised. "I have never known you to give pleasant advice before," he said. "But tell me: what do you mean by _they_?"

"The messengers who are sent with the Ring."

"Exactly! And who are _they_ to be? Can't we think of some names now? Or put it off until after dinner?"

There was a long silence. Tíniel looked at the grave faces around the circle. They each felt the weight of the world on their shoulders. Finally, the younger Halfling stood.

"I will take the Ring," he said, "though I do not know the way."

There was a quick intake of breath from all around the circle, and Elrond looked keenly at the Halfling. "If I understand rightly all I have seen," he said, "then this task is appointed to you, Frodo."

Suddenly another rounder Halfling leapt up from a shadowy corner. Tíniel jumped. "But you won't send him off alone surely, Master?" he cried.

"No indeed!" said Elrond, unable to hide a smile. "You at least, Sam, will go with him. It is hardly possible to separate you from him, even when he is summoned to a secret counsel and you are not."

Sam blushed and sat down next to Frodo. Tíniel shook her head in quiet disbelief. They were entrusting the most powerful weapon in existence to two curly-haired, childlike Halflings.

"The council is adjourned," said Elrond. "Bilbo, go find your dinner; we have talked enough for the present."

The chairs began to empty. Tíniel stood, but before she could move Boromir grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

"Wait," was all he said. She glanced up at his face; it was stonily impassive. Slowly, her heart in her throat, she sank back into her seat. Gradually, everybody left, and at last they were the only two remaining. The quiet was eerily still.

Boromir stood and paced to the edge of the porch, looking out over the landscape. They had a good view of the mountains from here, and the late afternoon light bathed them in a peaceful light.

"So," he said, not facing her. "More secrets."

The prophecy. The stupid, cursed, _damned_ prophecy had ruined her life once, and now it was striking again. "Boromir," she said quietly. "You have to know that I am sorry –"

"Why did you not tell me?" The deadly calm of his voice frightened her.

"You knew some of it," she tried, shamefaced. "You knew I was accused of being a traitor, that I was exiled."

His voice grew icy, making her flinch. "I will ask again. Why did you not tell me?"

"Because I was a coward," she whispered. "Because I was afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of... this."

He whirled to face her. "You had _no_ right," he spat, "to keep this from me! This is a betrayal in itself, a betrayal of my trust!"

She shook her head miserably. "I'm sorry, Boromir."

"You! You _damned_ girl! You endangered Faramir! And Ingold, and Anita, and _me_ , and the whole of Minas Tirith! How _dare_ you risk betraying us in a time like this?"

"I was selfish," she muttered. It felt like the world was collapsing around her. "I thought I could beat it. I thought I could win. I thought I was strong enough to resist it."

"That's not how prophecies work, Tíniel, that's not how fate works. _Damn_ you!"

"I am more sorry than I can say," she said again. "Yes, you deserved to know. But surely I deserve a life where I can live without people looking at me and thinking, 'Stay away from that woman, else she will betray you.'"

"Oh, certainly," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "And by all means, you should achieve that life by deceiving everybody you meet."

She dropped her gaze and shook her head. "Please don't leave me alone."

"No." He stepped up to her, breathing hard and pointing his finger in her face. "No. You cannot ask that of me. This is too much. This is too _much_. I don't want to talk to you, or see you, or be near you. So stay away from me."

With that, he strode out, leaving her alone.

* * *

 **So there we have it, the Council of Elrond as it actually happened (ie. in the books...). Slightly less dramatic than the movie, and a lot more long winded! No shouting, no pledging of weapons, only one hobbit in the bushes. And, contrary to popular belief, Boromir and Aragorn pretty much got on like a house on fire – none of that "Gondor needs no king", but just two good blokes having a yarn. Enough from me.**

 **I'm sorry this took so long, but thank you for your messages sending me support/telling me to kill off Boromir. Don't give up hope, the chapters will keep coming.**

 **S**


	13. Strider

**13 — STRIDER**

 **Before this chapter begins, I want to mention the recent terrorist attack in Christchurch. To my brothers and sisters in New Zealand: there is nothing I can say that hasn't been said already, but my family, friends and I were horrified and utterly grieved by what happened. People of all colours, religions and nationalities — they are us. Kia kaha.**

* * *

Imladris was beautiful, and Tíniel could hardly stand it. The next day she'd gone to find food, having eaten nothing all day before. But when she got to the door of the dining hall, she saw Boromir within, speaking to none other than Aragorn the Ranger. She'd turned on her heel and left hungry.

She didn't know what to do. She'd come to Imladris for answers, and not only had she found none, but her darkest secret had been shared with the man she cared most about – _and_ the most influential people of the free world. Everything she'd built for herself in the West was now in ruins around her. What could she do? How could she go on?

So she did nothing, instead wandering aimlessly through the gardens of Imladris. She avoided the main paths so that she wouldn't have to see anyone, but even then, she couldn't escape the curious eyes behind the courteous bows of the Elves. Before she might have tried to speak to them, but now they knew about her, everyone knew — if they grew close to her, she was doomed to betray them. She couldn't bring herself to even meet their eyes. She didn't want to see how they looked at her.

On the fourth day of her self-imposed loneliness, Tíniel climbed the slopes at the Northern end of the valley. The pine trees sighed sibilantly as she wove her way between them. She tried to make her footsteps as quiet as possible, like an Elf; it was difficult, for the ground was covered in dry pine needles and fallen branches, and she soon gave up. She continued up the slope until she was stopped by a sheer wall of rock. The cliff, she realised. Although the sky was stormy grey and the wind was high, she mechanically began to climb.

A few days ago, Tíniel would have grinned with the exhilaration of the experience, would have revelled in the adrenaline of the climb. Now, it was a matter of course. She simply placed one hand over the other, finding footholds with relative ease and pulling herself upward until, after a while, she reached the top.

She was sweating and exhausted physically, but mentally she was numb. She flopped onto the soft grass, propping herself up on her elbows and looked down over the valley. It was beautiful, and she could hardly stand it. She huffed. Beauty was for people who had lives to live and friends to share it with.

"My lady," said someone behind her. In a split second, she leapt to her feet and lithely drew her blade, spinning to meet him. It was an Elf.

"What are you doing here?" she said, forcing herself to sound calm and steady.

"I followed you," he said, unconcerned.

"I remember you," she said cautiously. "Legolas. Of Northern Mirkwood."

"Well met," he replied lightly, inclining his head in a sort of bow. "Would you care to sheath your blade?"

She did so smoothly. "Am I needed?" she asked.

"Not particularly," Legolas replied, coming to stand beside her and look out to the South. "Or perhaps you are, in ways we cannot guess."

She pursed her lips and looked back down at Elrond's house, small in the distance. "Do Elves ever answer anything?"

"Elves are renowned for their wisdom," he replied.

"Are Elves renowned for their wisdom?" she asked.

He looked down at her and gave a perplexed smile. "What?"

"I thought perhaps if I asked the question you answered, you would answer the question I asked."

He blinked, then shook his head, looking away again. She caught herself almost smiling, but then reality returned, and she set her mouth. "If I am not needed, you should let me be."

"And why so?" asked Legolas.

She snorted humourlessly. "You should know why. Elves are renowned for their wisdom."

"The prophecy should distress you less than it does."

She shook her head bitterly. "And it should distress you _more_ than it does, clearly. Don't you understand what it entails?"

"I do. But I doubt that you are the dearest person to my heart at this moment. If you would pardon the sentiment."

"No offence taken. It's easier for it to be no one."

"I am sorry for you."

"Save your pity," she muttered. "Why are you here?"

"Mankind amuses me."

"Well, Elvenkind irritates me."

He ignored her remark and continued. "More particularly, _you_ interest me. You are different to other humans."

"Because my skin is black?"

"Perhaps. To Elves, mortal Men are like sheep, preoccupied in their little lives. But you are a black sheep."

"How poetic," said Tíniel, "and mildly insulting."

"My apologies, princess."

Deciding that the Elf wasn't going to leave her alone, Tíniel sat back down on the ground, and swung her legs over the side of the cliff. Legolas sat too, crossing his legs beneath him.

"Pretend that I am a stranger," he said suddenly.

She glanced sideways at him and frowned. "You are."

"Then tell me why you are sad."

She rolled her eyes and looked back out to the Misty Mountains. "Because I am lonely."

"Well, why don't you make some friends?"

Tíniel scowled. "You are behaving like a child."

"Then indulge me like one."

"I cannot make friends," she sighed, "because everybody knows that whoever grows close to me, I must betray."

"Why not return to your homeland?"

"I am well known there too."

"Why not seek out a new home?"

"I did so once already, and it was one of the most difficult things I have ever done. I don't think I can do it again."

"So, you will stay here in the West."

She hid her face in her hands, screwing her eyes shut. "I don't know. I cannot say. Are you finished?"

"Let us imagine that you do stay. What then?"

"I don't _know_ ," she repeated, becoming frustrated. "I don't know what to do. I don't know where to go, who to talk to – or if I should even talk to anyone. I… didn't plan for this to happen."

"Then let us make a plan," said Legolas simply. "You told me you are sad. I think you should make some friends so that you can be happy."

She shook her head. "My only friend here was Boromir, and justifiably, he hates me now. I see no reason to endanger others, so who would I make friends with? Nobody would want to talk to me anyway."

"Then why am I talking to you?"

"You are strange, even for an Elf."

He laughed, the sound alien but melodious. "You could be right. I have ever sought strange friends. You are but my latest."

"Why thank you. Honoured to join the collection," she said sarcastically, but somehow the sharp edges of hopelessness in her stomach seemed to recede minutely. "You do understand that if you are my friend, and become dear to me, I could betray you?"

"Anybody could betray anybody."

"Not just lie to you, or compromise your honour, but maybe hurt or even _kill_ you."

He smiled slightly. "Are you threatening me, princess?"

She didn't return the smile. "Warning you."

He seemed to finally perceive the seriousness in her face and turned to face her. "I understand the risk," he said. "But I like you. You are an interesting mortal. And I think perhaps I could trust you."

"I don't know if I can even trust myself," she replied. The misery began to return. "The first betrayal... I wasn't even in my right mind." She pulled a clump of grass out of the ground and threw it over the side of the cliff.

"You thrive off connections with others," he said.

"You can't say that. You don't know me."

"But you are easy to read. You are a mortal."

"And you are a _vorukhi_ ," she muttered back.

Legolas got to his feet and offered her his hand. "If you are brave enough to make new friends again, I'd like to introduce you to someone. Would you come back with me, princess?"

She hesitated, but then took his hand and allowed him to pull her up. "I suppose I will," she said. "After all, I am nothing if not a predictable mortal."

Together, they descended the cliff. It was a lot harder than climbing up, and it took her longer than it had taken before. When they reached the bottom, Legolas took off, running lightly through the trees as naturally as a deer. Tíniel followed suit, wincing at the thudding and crunching of her footsteps, and pushing herself to keep up. By the time they neared Rivendell she was well and truly out of breath.

As they entered through an archway, Legolas slowed to a walk. Tíniel fell into step beside him, her sides heaving.

"So," she panted, "who are you… taking me… to meet?"

"An old friend of mine," he replied easily. "I believe you have already met, but he would like to become better acquainted."

"His name?"

"Have some patience."

Tíniel had half a mind to stop humouring the Elf and simply return to her quarters, but as usual, curiosity got the better of her and she continued after him.

Eventually they came to a stop before the door into somebody's chambers. Legolas knocked twice and then opened it.

"After you, princess," he said.

Her heart began beating faster for some unknown reason as she stepped inside the room. Her eyes adjusted to the dimness and she heard the door click shut behind her.

She was in a dimly lit sitting room, its walls lined with shelves of old books. There was a fire lit in the hearth and three sitting chairs gathered around it. But Tíniel noticed none of this, because standing before her, with his back to the fire, was Aragorn the Ranger, the man from her doom dreams.

In one fluid motion, Tíniel drew her sword and held it ready before her. Slowly, keeping her eyes on his, she moved back to the door, but she was stopped by a hand on her shoulder. She whirled to face Legolas.

"You," she hissed. "You pretended to befriend me just to bring me to this man."

"Nothing that I said was a lie, princess," he answered, seemingly unconcerned by the sword in his face. "But you are right, my friend sent me because he wanted to meet you."

She spun back to face Aragorn. He watched her warily. "Do your own dirty work next time," she said coldly, hoping he couldn't hear the tremor in her voice. "Now let me go."

He shook his head. "I have some questions first," he said quietly. "I would appreciate it if you would sheath your weapon."

" _I_ would appreciate not being kidnapped by your henchman."

Legolas snorted delicately behind her.

Aragorn sighed, and his face seemed to grow wearier. "I have no idea who you really are," he said slowly, as though he was explaining it to a child, "but you know as well as I that we need to discuss this."

For a few seconds she held his gaze, then, with an unnecessary twirl of the blade, she sheathed her sword. "Speak," she commanded bluntly.

He gestured to the chairs by the fire and reluctantly she took one. He sat too, but Legolas remained standing in front of the door.

They sat in silence for a moment. Tíniel took the opportunity to examine Aragorn. He was tall, she'd noticed before. Taller than Boromir, but not as broad shouldered. His hair and beard were unkempt, his skin browned by the sun, and his hands calloused; he was clearly a traveller, and he carried himself like a warrior. His eyes were a piercing blue shadowed with grey. They seemed fatigued, burdened with responsibility, but they were sharp and glinted almost wickedly in the firelight. Tíniel could see easily that if he wanted to, he would be a very dangerous enemy.

"So," he said eventually, his voice purposefully even. "Your name is Tchakhura, but you go by Tíniel. You are a daughter of a chief in Khand, yet now you are a mere subject of the Steward of Gondor. The Valar have given a prophecy about you which, according to two of the Wise, will concern all in Middle Earth. And you appear to me in a dream in which I need to trust you in order to survive." His stare was unfaltering. "Will you explain yourself?"

Tíniel looked into the fire. "You," she said in return, "are a lowly Ranger of the North, and yet you are the descendent of kings. Your name is Aragorn, but the Halfling calls you Strider. You keep in your possession the sword that was broken, but you dress like a wild man. When I see you in my dreams, I can't remember my own name." She looked up and met his eyes fiercely. "Tell me first, who are _you_?"

Aragorn sighed and sat back in his chair with an air of disappointment. "So you know as little as I do."

"I suppose," she replied.

"And you do not know what the dreams mean?" he asked, almost desperately.

Tíniel shook her head, and with some amount of surprise, she felt herself physically relax. She'd been afraid of this man, afraid of his significance in her dreams and afraid of what he would do to her. But now it was clear that he was confused and as afraid as she. Perhaps this was not an enemy, but... something else.

"We can relax, Legolas," Aragorn said wryly. "It seems we're back where we started."

Legolas left his post and came to sit gracefully in the third chair by the fire. "Three heads will think faster than one," he said. Tíniel wondered how he always seemed so cheerful.

"We know that the gods are watching us," she said. Aragorn looked up at her and she went on. "We know that they wanted us to meet. But now that we've met, what happens? Is the purpose of the dreams fulfilled?"

"I feel that our connection must be tied to your prophecy," Aragorn said guardedly. "But it is an instinct only. A feeling."

She tried to hold back her derisive snort. "I rarely trust to _feelings_."

"Instinct is all I can offer for now," he said back, a hint of sharpness in his voice. "Unless you have something better?"

She shook her head mutely and looked back into the fire. Legolas watched her with unnerving intensity.

"Did you expect a tangible answer?"

Tíniel sighed, rubbing her tired eyes and looking back up at Aragorn. "I don't know. I don't know what I expected, but it was more than... whatever this is. When I first saw you at the Council, I thought the puzzle would be solved. I thought I'd be able to decipher whatever the gods have been trying to tell me."

"Why did you come here?" Aragorn asked bluntly.

"Because your little lapdog tricked me into it."

"I don't mean _here,_ " he said, as Legolas straightened in mild indignation. "I mean Rivendell. Boromir could have brought news of Gondor and his dream alone, but you came with him. Was it merely to keep him company?"

She bit her lip when he said Boromir's name. "No. I came looking for answers. I wanted to know the truth about my prophecy, about... everything. But instead of an answer, I got conjecture and speculation."

"What now, then?" Legolas asked.

"I don't know. I... I don't know."

Aragorn exchanged a glance with Legolas. "We actually…" he cleared his throat. "We are planning to go with the Ring, to see it destroyed. Maybe your prophecy brought you here so that –"

"Certainly not," she cut him off. "I would not go within a league of that Ring. I betray the Ring, or the Company that goes with it, and the whole of Middle-earth falls."

"You have too little faith in yourself," said Legolas with an unreadable expression. "But your decision is your own."

"What if you went to Lothlórien?" Aragorn said suddenly, sitting forwards. "Elrond deals in wisdom, but the Lady has a mirror which shows things that even the wisest cannot see. Maybe you'll find another piece of your puzzle there."

Tíniel frowned, weighing the option in her mind. "The Men of Rohan fear her greatly," she said.

"Just as he who has always lived in the dark fears the sun," Legolas smiled.

"You don't need to decide now," Aragorn said, still somewhat stiffly. "I am hoping that the Ring and whoever goes with it will leave within a month. But between now and then, perhaps we can figure out why the Valar have seen fit to throw us together."

He clearly didn't trust her, but she didn't mind. She didn't trust him either.

"We can hope," she said.

* * *

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	14. Confessions

**14 — CONFESSIONS**

* * *

Boromir walked to the dining hall, his head bowed with dark thoughts. He had tried in his heart to do it – he _had_ – but somehow, he still couldn't bring himself to forgive Tíniel. The woman could have doomed his city, brought about the demise of his family, and maybe even hurt the man he loved with her prophecy. And yet she had kept it secret, let it eat her away… And not once had she spoken to him about it in the four years they'd known each other. That was what hurt the most.

He shook his head angrily. He wasn't going to let it hang over him for yet another day. There were bigger decisions to make now, more important things to think about than a personal feud. Things such as whether or not he would accompany the Ring on its way to Mordor. Boromir still wasn't convinced of the wisdom of destroying such a powerful weapon, one that could be used for such good in defeating the Enemy and bringing peace. But the decision had been made by people more powerful than him, and he would abide by it.

The easy thing to do would be to turn around and go back to Minas Tirith, to bring his father news of all that had been spoken of at the Council. But something nagged at his sense of honour. Why had the prophetic dream sent him to Rivendell if not to join the Fellowship and do his part in the war? Was that what the Valar meant for him to do? He wasn't stupid; he knew his capabilities as a warrior were impressive. Why not put them to good use protecting the Ring and those that went with it?

Frowning in thought, he turned into the dining hall and promptly ran into somebody.

"My apologies," he began to say, but the words died on his lips when he realised who he'd bumped into. It was Tíniel, flanked by none other than Aragorn and the Elf Legolas.

"Good morning to you," Boromir muttered, feeling a wrenching in his chest at the sight of her, and he spun on his heel to leave.

"Boromir, please," Tíniel said quickly, her voice pained. He stopped, but didn't turn back.

"Will you not speak to me?" she asked. He could imagine her brown eyes, wide and pleading. "Has this not continued long enough?"

Gritting his teeth, he turned to face her. "I thought I made my feelings clear before," he said quietly.

She clenched her jaw, and he knew her well enough to know she was holding back an outburst. "Please," she said. "I have few enough friends in this place."

For a moment, he imagined forgiving everything, drawing her into his arms so that things could go back to how they were, and he could tease her and call her his little sister. But he blinked, and the thought disappeared.

"Well, be sure you don't betray them," he said coldly. For one of the few times since he'd known her, Boromir saw Tíniel's eyes widen and fill with tears. He instantly regretted his words, but he didn't retract them.

Aragorn stepped forward. "Boromir, please," he said. "In these times, it's wise to know your enemies. But Tíniel is not one of them."

Boromir shook his head, and his eyes held hers. "If you say so," he said, and left without breakfast.

* * *

Tíniel watched Boromir retreating back, hating the burning feeling of tears behind her eyes. "I expected no less," she said quietly in response to the pitying looks that Aragorn and Legolas were shooting her way.

"He'll come around," said Aragorn.

"We shall see," she replied dejectedly, but then tried to brighten her tone. "In the meantime – have you spoken to Lord Elrond?"

"He agreed to meet us at midday," Aragorn said. "Until then, I have... other things to attend to."

Tíniel fought to not roll her eyes; she was beginning to grow tired of Aragorn's absolute lack of trust. They were strangers, certainly, but that hardly meant she was a spy of the Enemy.

"I think I will go to the training grounds," she said. "I haven't swung a blade in too long."

Legolas raised his eyebrows. "You fight?" he asked curiously.

"Of course," she replied. "All Khandi tribe women fight, until they are married."

"And I suppose you are not married?" Aragorn asked.

An image of Borund flashed to her mind, but she pushed it back and shook her head. "Luckily for all single men, I don't have much of an interest in marriage."

"Would you object to some company as you train?" Legolas asked, and offered her his arm. She shrugged her agreement, and they took their leave of Aragorn. Legolas led Tíniel down the winding pathways.

"You continue to surprise me, princess," he said as they walked.

Tíniel smiled slightly. "I am never sure whether you are complementing or insulting me," she replied dryly.

"I will wait to clarify until after I have seen you fight," Legolas said.

"Have you ever seen the Khandi fight?" she asked.

Legolas shook his head. "I have not, but I know Aragorn fought them once, in a different time and under a different name."

She looked up quickly. "He has fought against my people? Is that why he treats me strangely?"

Legolas frowned. "Strangely?"

"Everything he says to me is calculated to mean nothing," she said. "It's like he thinks I'm here in disguise to gather intelligence for Sauron's armies."

"Ah," Legolas nodded. "This is not strange for him. He treats all people like that."

"He doesn't treat _you_ like that."

"I have known him a long time, and so he trusts me."

"I see," she said shortly. So, Aragorn was slow to trust; she supposed she couldn't fault him, but his behaviour still seemed a little excessive.

"Here we are," said Legolas, ever cheerful. "The sparring grounds."

Tíniel looked over them critically. They were not so different to the ones in Minas Tirith, except that here, there were Elves. They whirled gracefully around each other, their swords blurring as they wove complex patterns. She shook her head in disbelief as she unbuckled the sheath from her belt.

Legolas produced his own sword and gave it a few swings. "Would you do me the honour of sparring against me?" he asked.

Tíniel snorted. "For the five seconds I will last, it would be a privilege."

They stepped into a ring opposite each other, and Tíniel jumped up and down a few times to get her heart pumping. Legolas stood facing her, relaxed and almost felinely graceful, watching her with a hint of a smile. She could read very little from his stance, but she had already given up hope of any success against him. At least it would be an experience, she reasoned.

He attacked without warning, swinging at her from her left with lightning speed. She parried quickly and tried to use the rebound to give her own attack some speed, but Legolas deflected her curved blade with ease. She leapt back and they circled one another for a few seconds.

After a moment, Tíniel stepped in, swinging with as much force as she could muster. Again, he deflected easily, and she was immediately on the defensive as Legolas slowly forced her backwards, layering blow upon blow. Seizing a slight gap in his attack, Tíniel ducked under his blade and stepped around him. He spun to face her, and they circled again.

 _Think_ , echoed the Khondyë's voice in her head. _Play to your strengths._ Her defence was good, she knew. Her attack could be effective, but not if she relied on brute strength. She certainly couldn't beat Legolas there, and although she very much doubted that she could match his speed either, she probably had a better chance there. Breathing deeply, she channelled all her fear of the prophecy, all the uncertainty of the future, all the pain of Boromir's rejection, into her blade. She was focussed, and she was fast. She attacked.

This time, they fought with real speed. They stepped together in a whirling eddy of silver, the only indication of violence the sound of their clashing blades. Both of them slashed and ducked and wove, neither losing ground and neither gaining the upper hand – until, without warning, they came to a sudden halt.

Tíniel stood with her chin lifted to avoid the long knife Legolas had pressed against her throat.

"I yield," she gasped, standing on the tips of her toes. "You're cutting quite finely there, Legolas. Grant me a little breathing space?"

He removed the knife and sheathed it, along with his sword. "My apologies, princess," he replied. Tíniel noted with satisfaction that he too was breathing heavily. "Was that a prime sample of variag fighting, or are all of your people equally as talented?"

"It was mostly _variag_ technique," she said, "along with some Gondorian method and a little of the pirate influence. And as for you – do the Elves of your kingdom usually pull knives in the middle of a dual?"

"We do what we must," he returned with a smile. "But you lost very well. You are a capable warrior, and now I think all the Free Peoples will know of you."

Tíniel looked about. The other couples on the fields continued their practice, but the overlooking balconies were not empty of spectators.

"I don't suppose it will do any more harm to my reputation than has already been done here," she said darkly, checking her sword for nicks and then sheathing it. "Nobody will be too surprised that the prophecy girl is capable of killing people."

"But she does it exceedingly well," came a new voice. Tíniel looked up; it was Elrohir, the Elf who had shown her and Boromir into Imladris. "If it pleases you, lady, would you do me the honour of sparring with me?"

Tíniel shook her head at Legolas' laughter and drew her sword.

* * *

Elrohir was right; she did fight exceedingly well. Aragorn watched from the balcony above as Tíniel sparred with the second Elf. She could certainly hold her own, he thought. Even against Elves. And despite himself, he was surprised. He didn't know what he'd expected from the stocky, bright-eyed woman from his dreams, but she was unlike anyone else he'd ever met.

"Strange, isn't she?" Elrond said in Sindarin, coming to stand beside him.

"To say the least," he replied.

"She is certainly a leader born, and yet she has no airs and carries herself like a warrior."

"Perhaps that is the way of leaders in the South."

"Or perhaps that is just her way," Elrond replied ponderously. "By all accounts she is easily likeable. She is optimistic and energetic, yet intelligent and capable. What a strange combination of things to be in such times."

Aragorn looked at him quizzically. "Enough of your Elvish riddles, if you please. What are you trying to tell me, with all your ancient wisdom? What ought I to know?"

"I _am_ quite old," said Elrond with a smile, "but I am no fool. The Valar have blessed you with an ally in hard times, but you are not letting her in."

He frowned. "Letting her in?"

"Trust goes both ways, my son. She isn't made of glass. You need to speak to her, _really_ speak to her. Stop treating her the way you treat everybody else."

"And how do I treat everyone else?"

"You keep them at an arm's length, trying to protect them. And that is admirable, certainly, but unsustainable – especially toward this woman, who could be the greatest of assets."

"I am wary of her because I have to be," said Aragorn quietly, looking back down to where Tíniel was laughing at something Elrohir had said. "Yes, the Valar sent me dreams of her, but I do not know what they _mean_. What if they were a warning? Am I to blindly take a leap of faith, to tell this woman that I barely know all my secrets and plans, in the fragile hope that she is trustworthy?"

"That is precisely what I am suggesting," said Elrond, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. "Every hope we have in these times is fragile, and every step a leap of faith. We are sending the One Ring on a precarious mission into the very arms of the Enemy; what could be more foolish than that? Look past your own fears and make a connection with this woman. It could be the very thing that tips the balance in Middle Earth."

"You make it sound very dramatic," said Aragorn. "Perhaps if I missed breakfast tomorrow, that would tip the balance as well."

"You know very well that the most minute of things can cast ripples," Elrond answered seriously. "Just look at the Halfling carrying the fate of the free world around his little neck."

"So I should simply make the decision to trust Tíniel, as easily as snapping my fingers?"

"Sometimes trust is built slowly, over many years. Other times, it simply requires blind courage."

Aragorn smiled ruefully and looked up at Elrond. "I will think on what you have told me," he said. "And I will try."

Elrond returned the smile and put his hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "I am glad of it."

* * *

Tíniel sparred with three more Elves and then a man before Legolas pulled her away from the ring. She was exhausted, and her muscles ached, but it felt good; she'd forgotten for a moment about the prophecy and Boromir.

"You fought well," Legolas said, handing her a flask of water. "Much better than I expected."

"How very kind and insulting of you," she replied after drinking deeply. "I should go, Aragorn and Lord Elrond will be expecting me."

"No, they will not," came Aragorn's voice. Tíniel nodded a greeting as he approached. "I spoke with him already, and he has no wisdom to shed on the dream, nor on what we should do about it."

Tíniel stoppered the flask. "And this isn't a conversation to which I should have been privy?" she asked shortly.

"I'm sorry," Aragorn said, and nodded to the ring behind her. "You were preoccupied."

"Ah, so the legend spreads," said Legolas with a knowing smile.

Aragorn's lips twitched into an almost smile, but he turned back to Tíniel. "Will you join me later to walk in the gardens? I think there is much we could discuss."

Tíniel hesitated, but then nodded. "As you wish."

* * *

By the time she had washed, dressed and then eaten, the autumn sun was growing redder and approaching the horizon. Tíniel wandered through the winding pathways of the gardens, marvelling at the orange leaves that carpeted the ground beneath her boots.

When Aragorn found her, she was crouching by a flower, touching its silky yellow petals gently with the tip of her finger. She stood abruptly when she saw him, and he tried a smile.

"I'm... sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you," he said.

"You didn't," she said, glancing back down at the flower and brushing fallen leaves from her skirt. She was wearing the dark yellow dress that Anita had gifted her many years ago. But unexpectedly, he crouched to study the flower, just as she had.

"It's beautiful," he said at last, standing up again. "Tiny, but perfect. They're rare in these parts, but Elrond has all kinds of rare beauties growing here."

His words were courteous and distant as they always seemed to be, but this time he seemed uncomfortable, like he was trying to broach an awkward subject. She nodded in polite interest at his words, and there was a beat of silence.

"It's strange to see you in a dress," he said, looking down at her.

"I suppose it is," she said, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Occasionally – very occasionally – I get the urge to dress like a Northerner."

He smiled at her half-hearted joke and offered her his arm. "Shall we walk?"

She took his arm, and they wound their way through the shrubbery and deeper into the trees. The shadows gradually lengthened as the sun sank lower, but they continued to walk until they reached a small wooden bridge over a quietly bubbling stream. Dark green ivy curled around the railings, and Aragorn came to a stop midway to the other side.

They stood in silence for a moment, Aragorn shifting slightly on the spot. Then, not meeting her eyes, he began to speak.

"I was raised here," he said in a rush. "Here in Imladris, I mean. I was happy, I suppose, but I didn't know I was human for the first twelve years of my life. And then for the next eight, I pretended I wasn't."

Tíniel watched him curiously, but didn't speak.

"Then I was angry," he continued, his voice growing more confident. "I was angry that I was different to my brothers, and I felt that I no longer belonged, so I left. I tried to go back to my people – my human people – but I couldn't stand being around them. They were mundane, trivial, Men. I found myself expecting to live a thousand years, and when I remembered my mortality, I couldn't breathe." He drew in a breath now, as though to remind himself that he still could, and he went on. "And so I left again, left my poor mother, and went South. And I did many foolish and stupid things, but in between those, I think I grew up."

"Why are you telling me this?" Tíniel asked warily.

"Well," Aragorn said with an almost apologetic half-smile. "I'm trying to trust you, I suppose."

She frowned, puzzled. "Go on then," she said at last.

"There isn't much left," he replied. "I came back North, and my mother died. She was a sad woman. She had given me away to Elrond, to the world, even though I was the only thing of her own that she had left. My father had died when I was four, and she was always alone."

"I am sorry for her," Tíniel said.

"She hated people being sorry for her. She understood the sacrifices she was making, and she made them all the same. She wanted to be strong."

"You've inherited that from her."

He looked at her quizzically. "What do you mean?"

"I mean no offence," she said slowly, "but from what I have observed... you seem to shut yourself off from others. You try to appear strong in front of them. You don't want to let people in, to trust them, because they'll see what you really are and pity you. Or perhaps despise you. You want them to think that you're in control and that you know what you're doing. But in truth, you're confused and afraid, and you know you're going to disappoint everyone, and that they'll watch you as you fall." She watched him closely. "Am I right?"

He glanced down at her. "You're oddly specific," he said, but then nodded grudgingly. "And yet I suppose you are right. Did Legolas feed you that speech?"

"No, but he might have," she replied. "You aren't alone. Anyone who is a leader feels that way. It's just that right now, for you, there's so much more at stake."

"Wise words from one so young," he said with forced lightness. "But it's your turn now. Trust runs two ways."

Tíniel picked at the ivy. She knew what he was trying to do. She understood the wisdom of building trust between them, and why it was important to solving the mystery of the dreams. But it didn't change the fact that she didn't want to trust this stranger that she'd only just met.

"Please," Aragorn added, as though he'd read her mind. She bit her lip, and looked up at the twilight sky. In her mind, she was standing in the desert as the sun set over the plains. It was raw, wild, beautiful. She missed it.

"I'm not that young," she began slowly. "I was born in the summer, nine-and-twenty years ago, along with my twin brother. I was the firstborn, but my mother died immediately after my birth. So my father, the chief, had to cut Tcharum from the womb."

She imagined it: the Khondyë, cradling his son as his daughter lay screaming and cold beside her dead mother. Shaking her head, she continued. The words began flowing more easily than she'd thought they would.

"My brother and I were equal in everything but my father's regard. It only made me fight harder for his approval than I should have. But despite him, I suppose I was well off. I was the equivalent of a captain of the army. I loved my people and was happy there. It was where I belonged."

"And then the prophecy came," Aragorn said.

"Yes, it did," she said, trying to meet his eyes. She pressed her trembling hands together and gave a humourless laugh. "While we are being honest with each other I'll tell you a great secret. I can never think about the prophecy without panicking." She held out her shaking hands for him to see, but he simply took them in his larger ones.

"You're going to be alright," he said quietly. " _We're_ going to be alright. We might be two broken people, but I think we'll be alright."

"You can't say that," she replied. "We're linked by a frightening dream that we don't know the meaning of. The world is falling apart around us, but it's possible that I will betray us all…" She felt her stomach contract again and she dropped her eyes, pulling her hands out of his. "You of all people should stay away from me. You're to be king, and we can't risk me harming you."

"The Valar disagree," he retorted. He took a deep breath, as though steeling himself. "I… I'm trying to trust you, Tíniel. That's the truth. You need to remember how to trust yourself."

"If only I were trustworthy."

"Tíniel…"

She shook her head and looked away, quickly changing the subject. "Who shall go South with the Ring?"

Aragorn glanced away, and she knew he was fully aware that she was avoiding the conversation. "Elrond hopes to send a fellowship of nine, to match the nine black riders of Sauron," he said. "Frodo and Sam, the Halflings, will go. Legolas and I mean to accompany them, and Gandalf shall be our guide."

She nodded thoughtfully. "And the other four?"

"Gimli, on behalf of the Dwarves, has volunteered. And…" he trailed off.

She frowned. "And?"

"And Boromir says he shall come as far as Minas Tirith. The other two Elrond means to choose from his household."

Tíniel went still. So, Boromir was going to leave her behind in Imladris. Even though she'd known it was a possibility, the revelation hurt.

"So, two Halflings, two Men, a Dwarf, a wizard and the rest Elves. It will be a good Fellowship," she said stoically.

"I'm sorry about Boromir," he said quietly.

She shrugged, trying and failing to smile. "I just don't know what I'm going to do," she said, her voice bleak. "I can't just _stay_ here, but I have nowhere to go."

"You'll think of something," he said. "I will help, and so will Legolas. You're not alone here. You're not without friends."

"No," she said. "No, I suppose not."

"Come on," he said. "We should leave now if we want to be back before dark."

* * *

Aragorn left Tíniel at her room with the promise that he would come to find her in the morning. As he walked slowly through the twisting hallways of the Last Homely House, he reflected on the conversation they'd had. Elrond had been right in telling him to put some faith in her; he had little doubt now that she was trustworthy, and he felt a cautious liking for her. She was honest to a fault, pointing out a weakness that he always tried to hide from everyone, and somehow making him feel better for it. He'd underestimated her before, and now he was glad that things were moving forward.

But she was so fearful – not of orcs or Sauron or death, but of herself and her potential to betray. Aragorn felt an almost unreasonable urge to protect her, to comfort her, to somehow make her understand that she wasn't nearly as weak as she thought.

It was on this that he thought when he collided with Boromir.

"Aragorn!" exclaimed the man. "I'm sorry, I was... thinking."

"As was I," Aragorn replied ruefully. He decided to take the opportunity to broach the subject. "Is it possible that both our thoughts were centred around the same person?"

Boromir's eyes darkened. "Perhaps," he said tightly. "But it isn't something I wish to discuss."

"You'd be a fool to go on like this," Aragorn said seriously. "Tíniel is the same person that you have known for years. She hasn't changed."

"Maybe so," said Boromir, his face aggrieved. "But the way I _look_ at her has changed. It's easy for you to tell me to forgive her, but you're not the one who was deceived by your closest friend."

"I know, and I don't blame you," Aragorn said. "Tíniel was in the wrong to keep the prophecy a secret. But I beg of you, for her and for your sake, find a way to forgive her. It wouldn't do to leave on our quest with such an unresolved problem weighing on you. And I can see how much you care for her."

Boromir sighed. "My head agrees with you, but my heart can't quite do the same. I understand that it's hard on Tíniel, but I…" he shook his head. "She made me so _angry_ , Aragorn."

"I don't believe she meant to hurt you or your family by staying in Minas Tirith," he replied. "I might not know her well, but I don't believe that of her."

"I know," Boromir acquiesced. "She would never willingly hurt anyone she loves… But enough of this. It's late, and I don't mean to keep you from your rest by confessing all my problems to you."

"It's an honour, Boromir," said Aragorn, smiling wryly. "Any time you need to confess, I'll be here."

"You might not be so eager to listen to my voice after a few months on the road with me," Boromir grinned. "I'll see you later." They clasped hands and parted ways. Aragorn went and locked himself in his room, but as usual, he got little sleep.

* * *

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	15. The Ring Goes South

**15 — THE RING GOES SOUTH**

* * *

Tíniel didn't sleep much that night. She tossed and turned, thinking about the prophecy and what Aragorn had told her. It went against her very nature to trust him after knowing him only a few days, but... speaking to him on the bridge had been strangely easy. And the way she'd felt when he unexpectedly took her hands in his… she didn't understand it, but it hadn't at all been a bad feeling. At the very least, it was good to have a friend.

 _She knew the second she drifted off to sleep, because she was in a doom dream. She stood in a deathly quiet forest. She'd never seen it before, nor did she know whether it was a real place; the trees were huge, so tall that she couldn't see their tops. Their leaves were golden-yellow, and the moonlight filtered through them eerily._

 _She looked about her; she was in a clearing, standing between the enormous roots of one of the trees. Directly in front of her, there was a rock platform with some kind of pedestal on top. Cautiously, she climbed the platform to take a closer look._

 _On the pedestal was a bowl, filled with silvery water. She peered over._

 _It should have been her reflection staring back at her, but instead there was another woman. She had ivory white skin instead of brown, long golden hair instead of black. Ancient blue eyes laughed at her, and the lips curved upward. She was an Elf._

" _Come to me," said the woman, her voice echoing through the wood. "I am waiting here for you."_

 _"Where are you?" Tíniel breathed. "_ Who _are you?"_

" _You seek answers," the woman replied. "Come to me, and we shall seek them together."_

 _Tíniel knew enough of Elves by now to know that she wasn't going to get a better answer than that._

" _I am coming," she promised, and the reflection faded into her own._

Tíniel didn't know how long she'd been asleep, but after the doom dream, she couldn't rest anymore. She stood by her window for a few minutes, absentmindedly watching the peek over the horizon and thinking about the events of the last night. But her reverie was disturbed when there came a knock at the door. Quickly she deposited her blanket, which she'd had wrapped around her shoulders, back on the bed. When she opened the door, she was surprised to see Aragorn.

"Good morning," she said.

"Tíniel," he greeted her with a nod. "Did you sleep well?"

"No," she replied. "Did you?"

His lips twitched at her bluntness. "Are you always this honest?"

"Do you always avoid questions about yourself?" she shot back. He looked slightly taken aback by this, but she grinned. "What an enigma Isildur's heir is. Is there something I can do for you?"

"Well…" He ran his hand over his hair awkwardly. "I didn't know if you'd be awake, but you seemed upset last night. I came to see if you were alright."

The strange feeling welled up in her again, the same one that had filled her chest when he'd taken her hands. Her cheeks flushed and she looked down. "I'm well enough. Thank you."

There was a beat of silence, then he spoke again. "Will you come and eat with me?"

She shrugged her agreement and shut the door behind her.

As they made their way through the corridors, Tíniel shivered. She should have brought a cloak or a shawl or something, she thought mournfully. The dress had been made with the milder climate of Minas Tirith in mind.

"Are you cold?" Aragorn asked, concerned.

"Well, yes," she said. "But are you my friend, Aragorn, or my mother?"

He laughed, and the sound brought a smile to her own lips. "I'm sorry," he said. "I suppose it must be colder here in the North than what you're accustomed to."

"This kind of weather is like Gondor in the winter, and yet it's only autumn here," she said. "I shudder to imagine what it'll be like in a few months."

"I've lived in cold places my whole life," he replied. "I'd like to go somewhere like Khand, where the summer never ends."

"We do have winter," she said. "But it is a warm one. I'd never seen snow, or even frost, before I came to Gondor."

"I can't imagine."

"Maybe I'll take you there some day," she said. They turned a corner.

"How optimistic of you," he said, his smile suddenly forced, "to assume we have a future."

"That's not what I like to hear from my king-to-be," she said half-jokingly. But her own smile faded, and for a moment they walked on in silence, both thinking of the war that no doubt was about to erupt around them.

"What a time to live in," he said at last, his purposefully light tone contrasting with his grave eyes.

"Do you ever wonder what it might have been like?" she said wistfully. "If nothing had gone wrong, and we'd just been allowed to live out our lives quietly and normally?"

He drew breath to reply, but then his eyes flicked behind her. "I... think I'd better save my answer for later," he said. "There's someone else who might like to talk to you."

Tíniel turned, and her heart sank. It was Boromir. He approached them, not meeting her eyes.

"Good morning," he said quietly. "Aragorn, would you mind if I spoke to Tíniel?"

"Of course not," said Aragorn quickly. He gave her an encouraging nod before turning to leave. She tried to shake off the feeling of dread; she wasn't sure what Boromir wanted, but she was almost certain that it couldn't be good.

He glanced up at her briefly, but then looked away again. "Come with me," he said. "Please."

She followed him to the library, which she hadn't yet had enough time to explore. It was a labyrinth, and after a few seconds Tíniel wasn't sure she'd be able to find her way out.

At last he stopped in a dimly lit corner. He turned to face her and took a deep breath. "Right," he said. "Tíniel, I just – I have to say – I want you to know that I am sorry for how I've been."

She shook her head quickly, shame filling her again. "You don't need to apologise for anything."

"Yes, I do," he said earnestly. "I was too hard on you, and it's taken me far too long to come around."

She looked up, trying not to hope too much. "I know I don't deserve it, but does this mean…"

He nodded. "I forgive you," he said gently, "and ask your forgiveness for being a proper fool. I never really blamed you in the first place."

"Boromir, you don't have to say this," she said. "It's hard for me, but you were _right_ to be angry. You were right to push me away."

He snorted, and for a moment it felt like nothing had happened between them at all. "Listen to me," he said. "I was angry that you told Gandalf, a complete stranger, rather than me. And in my anger, I pretended to myself that you were in the wrong, a danger to Minas Tirith. I was just looking for someone to blame for feeling like you didn't trust me."

"But I _am_ a danger to you," she answered despairingly. "Boromir, you are a brother and friend to me. If I become dear to you, you're in danger! The prophecy makes it clear that anyone I get close to is risking their safety."

"I am willing to take the risk," he said stubbornly. "I _trust_ you; I love you as my own sister, and I don't believe you would truly hurt me. Think about the first time you fulfilled the prophecy — _first for life_. It was a betrayal of your people, a betrayal of those that held you dear, but nobody was hurt. In fact, you saved your own life."

"It was more serious than you realise. What I did... it was worse than you can understand," she muttered. "A betrayal of the Law, of the very essence of my culture. It ruined me, surely you remember."

He shook his head. "Regardless, I forgive you for not saying anything. And I am sorry for being angry and leaving you alone here. I just… I can't leave, on a quest to the middle of Mordor, of all places, and not be on speaking terms with you."

Remorse and regret rose inside her, and she couldn't meet his eyes. "Boromir," she whispered. "Boromir, I am so _sorry_ , I —"

He cut her off by pulling her into his arms. She hugged him back tightly.

"Shut up for once," he said. It felt immensely good.

* * *

Aragorn sat down beside Legolas with a sigh. The Elf moved over a little to give him more room and smiled slightly.

"You are thinking of the princess, are you not?" he asked.

Aragorn's eyes snapped up suspiciously. "How could you tell?" he said. "And anyway, what of it?"

Legolas shrugged nonchalantly. "You have a very specific look in your eyes when you think of her," he said.

"She's with Boromir," Aragorn replied darkly. "So the poor woman is either being forgiven or having her head chopped off." He paused, and then frowned. "Wait a moment, what do you mean by _specific look_?"

"Dreamy."

Aragorn smacked him on the arm, hard. "That isn't true," he snapped, but Legolas narrowed his eyes at his friend's reaction.

"Aragorn?" he said slowly. "I didn't mean what I said, but... do you actually…?"

"No. No, of course not," Aragorn replied. "I've known her for a few days. Less, even."

Legolas arched a perfect eyebrow. "True love knows not the limits of time."

Aragorn choked on his mouthful, and spent a good minute coughing. When he could breathe again, he turned to face Legolas. "Did your father never teach you when to shut up?"

Legolas grinned. "You are avoiding the question."

Aragorn sighed and shook his head. "Very well, I shall answer it. I am not in the habit of falling in love with women I have just met, and Tíniel is no exception."

"But you like her?"

"Well... yes. I mean, she's likeable. Don't you like her?"

Legolas shrugged. "I am not in the habit of liking women I have just met."

Aragorn resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. "You're too much."

"Thank you."

They were interrupted by the very subject of their conversation, who came to sit opposite them at the table, with Boromir by her side. Aragorn looked at them expectantly, his eyebrows raised. Tíniel rolled her eyes.

"Yes," she said. "We're friends again."

"Thank the stars," he muttered, then raised his eyebrows at Boromir's subsequent eye-roll. "Look at you two. Is it Gondorian custom to roll one's eyes at friends?"

"No," Boromir retorted. "It is only our customary salute to our king. You'd best get used to it before we get to Minas Tirith, my lord."

Aragorn looked to Legolas for support, but Legolas merely bowed his head respectively and rolled his own eyes.

Tíniel burst out laughing at all of them. "You're children, the lot of you," she said. "And the last hope of Middle-earth!"

Boromir elbowed her. "You started it."

"We are simply following the example of our princess," said Legolas demurely.

"Speaking of the fate of the world," Boromir said, suddenly serious, "have you heard any more about the final two companions of the Fellowship?"

Aragorn shook his head. "My best guess is Glorfindel, and perhaps one of Elrond's sons. But he refuses to choose just yet."

"Why so?" Tíniel asked. "Surely it is wiser to leave as soon as possible before the winter snows set in."

"Because it will mean it has begun," Legolas said softly, his fair face grave for once. "Here, we are teetering on the edge of a cliff; the Ring has not yet left safety. But when the Fellowship leaves, everything will become real. Our greatest chance, our last effort to overthrow the Enemy will be underway. And that is frightening for Elrond."

"For us all," Aragorn said. "We are in an island of peace here. I almost wish we never had to leave."

"But the longer you tarry, the more chance there is of things going wrong," Tíniel argued. "The weather grows colder, and the Enemy grows stronger. It's only a matter of months, if not days, before he starts sending out his armies."

Boromir glanced sidelong at her. "Are you sure you won't come with us? I mean to end my journey in Minas Tirith, so it would make sense for you to travel with me."

She shook her head solemnly. "I know you all say you trust me, but I think it is too risky. The Ring must be protected at all costs, so the last thing we need is me coming along and then betraying it for gold." She paused, then spoke again. "Besides, I think I now have an idea of where to go."

Aragorn looked up quickly. "Where?"

"I'm not sure," she replied. "I had a doom dream last night. I saw the place, and the woman there that I must speak to. The gods have guided me well enough until now, so I might as well follow them again."

"Do you know what this place is?" Legolas asked her.

"It was some kind of wood, I think. There were enormous, white-trunked trees with golden leaves."

"Lothlórien," Legolas and Aragorn said simultaneously.

Tíniel frowned. "I have been warned to stay away from that wood, and the witch that lives there."

"By Men of Rohan, no doubt," Aragorn said. "They mistake power for evil, but the Lady of the Wood is not so wicked as they would like to believe. You have more to fear on the journey there than you do in Lothlórien itself."

"It is a good place for you to go," Legolas said. "There is none wiser than Galadriel. So say all the Wise."

"Then I must prepare to go," she said thoughtfully. "I think there is a pass through the mountains that I could take, if I remember correctly."

"You are _not_ going alone," Boromir said firmly. "I won't allow that."

She snorted. "What you do or do not allow has nothing to do with anything. Besides, I don't see what other choice I have; I am capable of protecting myself, and I don't want to deprive Elrond of anyone in his army at a time like this. He needs every sword he has."

"Perhaps you could come some of the way with the Fellowship?" Boromir suggested again, but Aragorn shook his head.

"I'm afraid Lothlórien doesn't lie on our path to Mordor," he said. "Gandalf doesn't plan to even go near it."

"And I have told you already, I'm staying away from the Ring," Tíniel said with finality.

"But I don't like the idea of your going alone either," Aragorn said. Tíniel turned her glare on him, but her reply was stopped short by an Elf who approached their table and bowed slightly.

"Lady Tíniel, my lord Elrond requests a meeting with you in his quarters," he said formally.

Tíniel glanced at Aragorn, but he shrugged.

"Certainly," she said, and followed him out.

* * *

Elrond was sitting, staring with troubled eyes into his smouldering fire when she entered his office. Tíniel stopped in the doorway; he hadn't moved at all, but she had no doubt that he knew she was there. Elves, she thought resignedly.

She cleared her throat, and he turned to look at her. "My lord," she said, and inclined her head.

Elrond rose, crossed the room and clasped her hands in his. "Tíniel," he replied. "I thank you for coming at such short notice."

"It was no trouble," she said. "Is everything alright?"

"I have called you because in the night I received a message," he said, sitting back down in his chair and gesturing for her to take her own. "It came to me from Lothlórien, the golden wood. Have you heard of it?"

"As of this morning, yes," Tíniel replied. "But I received a message too."

He leaned forward, a curious gleam in his eyes. "How so? What was the message? Who sent it?"

"It was a doom dream," she said. "I saw the wood that you speak of. I stood in a clearing and looked into a bowl of clear water. In place of my own reflection, I saw the face of an Elf. She told me to come."

"Galadriel's Mirror," Elrond breathed. He sat back in her chair and regarded her carefully. "I marvel that the Valar send this gift of foresight to you."

Tíniel tried not to squirm beneath his gaze. "As do I," she said. "For the first time it has been useful, actually told me something rather than giving me strange visions that mean nothing."

"Indeed," he said with a faint tone of amusement. "And now the decision is yours. Will you follow the path given you by the Valar? Will you go to Lothlórien?"

"I think I will," she said slowly. "I think it is my fate anyway, and I'm quite tired of fighting a losing battle. Perhaps the Lady there could help me with some of her famed wisdom. But please, do not burden yourself with it. I will make my own way there."

He smiled. "You are selfless, and brave," he said. "But I could not allow that in good conscience. I have thought on it already, and I shall send one of my sons with you."

"I thank you, but I have no need of an escort. I don't want to deprive your household of its warriors when it needs them most."

"Think of Elrohir more as a guide, if it sits better with you. But I intended to send him to Lothlórien regardless; there are messages which need delivering by a sure hand."

Tíniel nodded slowly. "It is your decision," she said. "When does he mean to leave?"

"He is gone at this moment with his brother. They left this morning to scout the lands around the valley before the departure of the Ring. If all goes according to plan, they will return within two weeks."

Tíniel watched the Elf carefully. He was hard to read, to say the least. But she saw now that Legolas had been right; he was afraid of letting the Ring go from safety into the wild, and he was putting it off.

"If you will permit me, lord," she said, "this hesitation is dangerous."

He glanced up at her. "What do you mean?"

"Winter is coming, and the Enemy gathers his forces to himself. Choose the last two of the Fellowship and let them leave."

He gave a faint, distinctly Elvish smile. "You think I should set the wheels in motion," he said. "I will. I will, soon enough. And the last two have already been chosen, beyond my planning and even my imagining."

"Who are they?" she asked, curious.

"They are Peregrin Took and Meriadoc Brandybuck, Halflings of the Shire."

Tíniel blinked. "Perhaps the wisdom of that is clearer to you than it is to me."

"I am afraid not; it is Gandalf who sees their worth better than we," Elrond said. "But this is a matter which need not concern you. Have you spoken more with Aragorn about the dreams you both had?"

"We have… spoken," Tíniel replied. She wasn't sure how much she should say about her interactions with the ranger, how their cautious friendship had begun to grow.

"That is well," Elrond said. "I will ask no more about it now. Go, and be easy. There is a time still before you must leave, so spend it well."

* * *

Tíniel spent it as well as she could. She trained every day with the Elves, never once winning a sparring match unless it was the occasional one against Boromir, who she could read more easily. He was her constant companion; they spent most days together, often with Aragorn and Legolas too, and because of this Tíniel came to know the nine who would be travelling to Mordor. Boromir she trusted, and Aragorn and Legolas she had come to like. Gimli the Dwarf seemed stout enough, and Gandalf was Gandalf. But the four Halflings troubled her; she was afraid they would become liabilities on the road.

No further information about her connection with Aragorn was forthcoming. But they spent time together, both making the effort to trust the other, and by the time Elrond's sons had returned, their friendship was firm.

Elladan and Elrohir returned after three weeks instead of two, when the cold had really begun to set in. They gathered in a room one day, the nine of the Fellowship, Elrond and his sons, the Elf Glorfindel, and Tíniel. The fire was blazing high and the sound of the Halflings' spirited chatter filled the room.

"Are they going to be this way on the journey?" Tíniel asked Aragorn, her voice hushed.

"They were like that all the way here from the Shire," he said grimly. "But it wasn't my decision. I can only trust Gandalf and hope they'll learn to shut up."

"I don't like your chances," she replied. "Aragorn, I'm afraid for them. They're a burden on you five. They can't even _defend_ themselves. One of them to take the Ring is hard enough, but to bring along _four_ …"

"I know," he said quietly. "But they are a hardy folk, so much so that they often surprise themselves."

"I hope so," she said, and shook her head. "At the very least, they might make you laugh. You might need some of that where you're headed."

Aragorn gave a wry half-smile. "I almost wish you were coming," he said.

Tíniel looked down and gave a short laugh. "You know very well I will not. Besides, you already have your nine."

"I know," he replied. "But –"

"Quiet, if you please," came Gandalf's voice. The chatter died down, and they turned to look at him.

"It has been decided," the wizard announced gravely. "We shall leave in three days' time."

The room, which before had been filled with conversation and the laughter of the Halflings, was suddenly silent and morose. Beside her, Boromir took Tíniel's hand and squeezed it.

There was little more to be said after that. The Fellowship quietly filed out of the room, going to make ready for their departure, but Tíniel stayed behind and waited until Elrohir finished speaking in hushed tones with his father. After a minute, Elrond swiftly took his leave and Elrohir turned to face her.

"My apologies, princess," he said.

She narrowed her eyes. "Did you hear Legolas calling me that or something?"

"Yes," he replied unashamedly, his eyes twinkling. "I'm afraid it has caught on. It suits you."

"Very well. I know better by now than to argue with an Elf."

He laughed outright. "Then I think we will get on very well as travelling companions."

"That's what I wanted to speak with you about," she said. "When do you wish to leave?"

"Tomorrow, early in the morning," Elrohir said. "I know it is soon, and I have given you little warning, but it is better that we leave before the others."

Tíniel simply nodded. "I am already packed," she said. "I will say my goodbyes tonight."

* * *

She told her friends that evening. They were in what was named the Fire Room, and two Elven women were singing together, their voices intertwining hauntingly. Tíniel was sat between Legolas and Boromir, across from Aragorn. She watched the man's face; it was peaceful, his head leaned back against the wall, his eyes half-lidded, his mouth slack. She couldn't help but smile a little, but it faded when she spoke.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," she said quietly. Legolas sat up immediately, soon followed by Boromir and Aragorn, whose face suddenly seemed lined with care. Tíniel almost wished she hadn't disturbed him.

"I wanted to say goodbye to you all now," she said. "Good luck on your travels. Fight well. It is my honour to have known you."

For a moment, the only sound was the singing. But then Legolas smiled faintly and turned to clasp her hand.

"I wish you an easy road," he said. Then he cupped her face with his other hand and looked hard into her eyes. "Don't die."

"She rarely does," Boromir joked quietly, but then turned serious. "Now that we've come to it, I'm reluctant to part from you, little sister."

"And I from you," she replied. "But your quest is by far the more dangerous, so give me leave to be the more concerned."

"Never," he said, putting his arm around her.

Opposite, Aragorn merely met her eyes and nodded.

* * *

Later that night, Boromir and Tíniel walked together back to their quarters.

"I will come to see you off in the morning," he said. He took one of her hands and spun her around as though they were dancing. "I shall miss you."

"Don't cry too much without me," she said smartly, but then softened. "I'll see you in the morning, then. The wheels have begun turning at last."

"Goodnight. Get some sleep, for once.

She shut the door behind her and pulled off her boots, silently thanking whoever had come in and lit her fire. But the second she went to sit down, there came a knock at the door.

"Boromir? Is that you?" she called, opening it. But it was Aragorn, not Boromir, standing on the other side.

"It's only me," he said. "I wanted a chance to say goodbye properly."

She simply opened the door wider in response, and he stepped into the warmth of the room. They sat in the chairs by the fire and she looked at him expectantly.

"Well, goodbye," he said.

She laughed. "Goodbye to you too."

There was silence for a moment, broken only by the crackling of the flames.

"I can't believe it's beginning," he said finally.

"Nor can I," she replied softly. "I understand how Elrond feels, I think. I wish we could live here forever, suspended in time."

"I don't," he said. "There is peace, it's true. But it's a peace with the knowledge that darkness grows outside, and I don't think I can live with that."

"You're right, of course," Tíniel sighed. "But after all of this, if we come out the other side, none of us will be the same."

"I know," he replied. "That's the nature of war, I suppose. But changes don't all have to be bad."

"I've been thinking," she said hesitantly, "about us."

He frowned. "Us?"

"About you and I, and what we're to do about the dreams we had."

"Oh. What were you thinking?"

"Well…" she paused. "I was worrying that... maybe we were supposed to stay together, and now we might ruin whatever plan they have for us by parting ways."

Aragorn pondered this for a moment. "Maybe you're right," he said slowly. "But we can't know that."

"I know. I am just afraid of making a mistake."

"Listen," he said, looking at her earnestly, "if we _are_ supposed to stay together, if that is the Valar's purpose for us, then that means it's our fate. Right?"

She nodded, and he went on.

"And fate cannot be escaped. So even when you leave tomorrow, even through our separate journeys, we know we'll see each other again. Because we are fated to."

Tíniel smiled at his logic, but she couldn't help thinking – perhaps he was right. Fate was like a river, she remembered Akhund telling her.

"Then I will count upon fate," she said.

The easy silence stretched until Aragorn broke it again. "Are you afraid?"

"No," she said thoughtfully. "I don't think so. I am not afraid of the journey, or orcs, or goblins, or death. But I do feel… helpless." She stared into the flames. "The Shadow over these lands is so vast, so ancient that it's hard to imagine a life without it. I don't know if I believe we can actually defeat it."

"I feel the same," he replied, his voice low. "To the outside world, I have to pretend that I have faith in our cause, but…" he shook his head. "My father, my father's father, and his father before him have all fallen before the Enemy. What should make me different?"

Tíniel leaned forward resolutely. "One thing I do believe is this," she said. "If there is ever to be a king in Gondor, it will be you. And I will succeed in putting you on a throne, or I will die trying."

Aragorn smiled wanly. "Don't misplace your confidence," he said.

"I rarely do. And besides, I always remember that in every dream I had of you, you were wearing the crown of the king."

"I remember _you_ were always wearing some kind of silver medallion around your neck," he said. "But I've never seen you wear it here."

"The _hamarakhi_ of the _Khondyë_?" she said, surprised. "I never noticed."

He frowned. "The what of the what?"

"A _hamarakhi_ is like the Khandi version of a crown. It is a symbol that the chief wears on a chain around their neck."

"Hm. So I was wearing a crown, and you were wearing a fancy necklace."

She sighed. "Very, very rarely do I understand doom dreams."

Aragorn smiled and looked at the fire, which was beginning to burn low. "I should go," he said. "You'll need all the rest you can get."

"It really is goodbye then," she said.

He hesitated, then leaned forward and took her hand in his. It was calloused and warm, large in comparison to hers. "I'm glad that I met you," he said quietly. "Be safe."

" _Khuma_ ," she replied. "It is a Khandi word for hello and goodbye. It means, may peace go with you."

"I'll remember it," he said solemnly, "and you, and all you have said to me. May peace go with you, and may we meet again, perhaps in better times."

He stood, his face shadowed by the firelight. He brushed his thumb across the top of Tíniel's hand, so quickly that she wondered if she'd imagined it. Then he was gone.

* * *

In the grey of the next morning, Tíniel tightened the straps on the saddlebags of her horse. The farewell party consisted only of Boromir and Elrond, and while the latter embraced his son, Tíniel turned to her friend.

"So," she said.

"So," he echoed, smiling wryly. "I suppose there isn't much left to be said."

"I suppose so," she said. Then she reached up to wrap her arms around his neck. "Please don't die," she whispered. "I promised Faramir I'd get you home."

He returned the embrace. "I'll try my utmost. And you, be safe. Look after that Elf."

She released him and stepped back. "I will see you again," she said.

"I'll meet you in Minas Tirith," he replied firmly, his grey eyes resolute.

"Minas Tirith," she agreed. "Goodbye, Boromir."

"Goodbye, little sister."

When they reached the top of the valley, Tíniel turned to look back. She saw Boromir and Elrond still standing together, small in the dim light of dawn. She didn't see Aragorn standing on a balcony grim-faced and wrapped in his cloak, watching her ride away.


	16. Knives in the Dark

**16 — KNIVES IN THE DARK**

* * *

Tíniel and Elrohir were well into the wilderness. They had ridden hard the first day, keen to put some distance behind them, yet the Misty Mountains seemed to grow no closer. The landscape was flat and monotonous, but Tíniel didn't mind the quiet. She supposed they would encounter orcs sooner or later, and she kept her sword at the ready.

"We will stop here," said Elrohir. Tíniel dismounted gratefully and tied her horse to the lone tree the he'd chosen. The Elf watched with amusement.

"I have told you that there is no need," he said, setting his pack on the ground. "She is an Elvish mare and will not flee."

"At least I'll know where she is," Tíniel replied stubbornly, checking the knot was secure and thinking back to the fateful night in Tharbad.

They made no fire; the Enemy had eyes everywhere. But it was cold, and Tíniel pulled out her blanket and wrapped it around her. Night had fallen over Hollin, and she looked up at the Northern stars.

"There were Elves here, once," Elrohir murmured.

"Where did they go?" she asked.

"They left, scattered, many years ago now. The memory of them is gone from everything, save maybe the stones."

She picked up a rock from the ground beside her and brushed some of the dirt from it with her thumb. It was nondescript, unimpressive. She could sense no Elvish influence on it.

"I shall take your word for it," she said.

He smiled and offered her a piece of dried meat. She took it and nodded her thanks, though it was tough and too salty. Cured meat was better back in Khand, she reflected dolefully.

"Will you teach me something in your language?" she asked, keen to lift the flat silence of the wide plain.

Elrohir tilted his head. "Why do you want to learn?"

She shrugged. "It is a different tongue to any I have spoken before."

"And how many have you spoken?"

"About ten, I suppose. But they shared sounds, and some shared words. None are known in the North."

"Very well," he replied. "Here is your word: _estel_."

" _Estel_ ," she repeated softly, trying to capture the Elvish lilt.

"It means hope."

"Gods grant that we may keep it with us."

Elrohir smiled wryly in a way that reminded her of Legolas. "You carry hope with you wherever you go, princess. Should you lose it, the rest of us will too."

She shook her head at his cryptic words. "Do you know, I have simply learned to accept that everything that Elves say makes no sense."

He laughed, and it rang out through the great silence of the dusk. "My apologies, princess. Foresight is difficult to explain to others."

"True enough."

"Aragorn is called _Estel_ in Rivendell," said Elrohir.

"He told me he was raised there by your father," she replied. "Estel is a good name for him."

"Yes, it suits him. I am honoured to call such a Man my brother."

"And yet you are immortal," she said. "How can you call him brother when he will die in a blink of your eyes?"

Elrohir lay back against his pack and stared up into the dark sky. "The same way I called his father my brother, and his grandfather, and many of his forefathers."

Tíniel shook her head. She couldn't imagine such boundless, fathomless longevity.

"I was there when Arathorn was killed," Elrohir continued softly. "He was hunting orc with my brother and me. He was shot in the eye, killed immediately."

"I am sorry."

"Don't be. It was not a death he deserved, but it was one he expected. _His_ father was killed by a troll in the mountains, and his grandfather by a goblin blade through the chest. But no matter how hard the servants of the Enemy have tried, Isildur's bloodline persists."

"And this time is different," Tíniel said. "Aragorn is going to be the King. I will see him there, or I will die."

"That would be a noble thing to say, if dying were not so easy to do," he replied. "Yet I stand with you. If Estel is not to be King in the West, then there will be no king."

* * *

Aragorn sat on a step, his elbows resting on his knees, and watched as the last ray of sun was swallowed by the Western horizon. The night was clear for the moment, but a brood of clouds hung low on the Eastern horizon — the direction they would begin walking that very evening.

He shuddered, letting his head hang down but pushing back the tide of dread that threatened to swamp him. There was so much at stake, and so much riding on him. He felt weak, inconsequential, weary — he hadn't slept since Tíniel had left Rivendell. But he rarely slept anyway, so it hardly mattered.

The rest of the Fellowship looked almost as sombre as he felt. Merry and Pippin were subdued, Gimli was flicking the tip of his axe blade with his thumb, Gandalf was muttering darkly to Elrond, and Sam was sitting quietly next to Frodo, who looked physically ill. Legolas stood with his eyes closed and his face upturned to the twilight with Boromir beside him, the only two of the party who seemed unconcerned by their impending departure.

Aragorn squeezed his eyes shut as a tremor of dread ran through him. He couldn't lead this group of nine, let alone a kingdom. But in all likeliness, he would never have to. The shadow was far too strong…

"Aragorn."

He looked up quickly, hoping his expression was neutral, but when he saw it was Boromir he relaxed.

"I am sorry," he said. "I was lost in thought."

Boromir came to sit beside him. "Seemed more like you were lost in despair," he said drily. "You have a penchant for jumping to dramatic conclusions, my friend."

"These are dramatic times."

"Indeed they are," Boromir replied. "But dramatic times make for the best songs. Look here: you have your sword, forged afresh. I have mine, and my shield. Let us trust in them. Enjoy your life while you still have it." He got to his feet and stood before Aragorn, whose lips twisted in spite of everything. "Come now. Gondor is waiting for us both."

Aragorn let Boromir pull his to his feet, and they clasped hands for a moment longer.

"Thank you, Boromir," he said seriously. "You are a true friend to me."

"Brother," answered Boromir, just as gravely. His eyes glinted in the fast-fading light. "Now let's go hunting."

Taking his horn from his belt, he gave a short blast. The echoes sprang back from the rocks, and all of the Fellowship leapt to their feet. Aragorn felt his heart rise within his chest, and he set his jaw with determination. His fear could wait until later.

"Slow should you be to sound that horn again, Boromir," said Elrond, "until once more you are in Gondor, or until the gravest need is upon you."

"Maybe," said Boromir, "but I always blow my horn at a setting-out, and I will not leave this place like a thief in the night. No fear of Sauron will quiet me."

"Perhaps it should," the Elf replied gravely. "This is my last word: the Ring-bearer is setting out on the Quest of Mount Doom. On him alone is any charge laid. The others go with him as free companions, to help him on his way. The further you go with him, the harder it will be to withdraw; yet no bond is upon you to go further than you will. For you do not yet know the strength of your hearts, and you cannot foresee what each may meet on the road."

"Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens," said Gimli staunchly.

"Maybe," said Elrond, "but let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall."

Many of Elrond's household stood in the deepening shadows, wishing the company a safe journey with soft voices. There was no laughter, no music. They left in silence.

* * *

 _She was in the desert, the stars burning bright above her. It was dark and empty, beautiful but cold. She looked up at the yellow sickle moon, curved like the blade of her sword, and when she looked down Borund was standing before her._

" _Makhyë," he said, putting his fist to his shoulder in salute. "Khuma."_

" _Khuma," she breathed. She reached out a shaking hand to his face, to see if he was real, but he caught it in his own._

" _We made promises to each other," he said. "We are sworn to each other."_

" _It is true," she whispered. His dark, solemn eyes reflected the moonlight._

" _But the oaths of Men mean nothing to the gods," he said. "Tchakhura… it is not me."_

 _He let go of her hand and she stumbled backward. "Borund," she said. "Borund, what do you mean?"_

" _It isn't me," he repeated sadly, and turned his back._

" _No!" she cried. A brisk wind suddenly picked up around her, whipping the sand into swirling eddies. "Damn these dreams and their useless riddles!" She ran after Borund and caught his arm. "Please, tell me something I can understand. Is my brother alive? Is my family safe?"_

 _Borund turned, but his face had changed and twisted into that of Akhund. "As safe as anyone in these times."_

 _Then he disappeared into a storm of sand._

Tíniel woke shaking. It was still night, the middle of Elrohir's watch, but she knew she wouldn't be sleeping again. Wearily she stood and made her way over to where he was sitting on an outcrop of rocks.

He didn't look at her. "You rise early, princess."

"Not by design," she responded. The events of the doom dream kept repeating in her head, and she shook it frustratedly. "I can't sleep."

"You can," he replied demurely, "but you do not want to dream again. Am I correct?"

Damn the Elves, she thought. "Yes."

"You were speaking in your sleep before you woke."

She looked up sharply. "What did I say?"

"You were speaking another language, but some words you spoke more than others. You said the word _Borund_ many times, and also _khaviga_."

She winced.

"And you called for Aragorn."

Tíniel frowned. "What?"

"You called out to Aragorn in your sleep. I cannot say why, because I do not understand your tongue."

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. "I don't know… I am sorry Elrohir."

"For what? It has not yet been troubling or tiresome to travel with you, princess." He leaned forward and took her hand. "And should you ever wish to share your dreams with someone, I am willing to listen."

She squeezed his hand and smiled ruefully. "Perhaps one day," she said. "But for now, since I will sleep no more, we might as well make an early start. We have some mountains to climb."

* * *

It was Sam's turn to take the watch, but Aragorn joined him. He had travelled through Hollin before, but never had it felt this way — like something was missing, like the landscape was waiting. Everything was holding its breath, and he didn't like it.

"Don't you ever sleep, Strider?" Sam asked.

Aragorn smiled. "Sometimes."

The hobbit shrugged. "I'll admit this whole arrangement don't sit too well with me neither. Walking by night and sleeping by day… that's enough to keep anyone in his right mind wakeful."

Aragorn nodded absently, but his eyes were scanning the brown landscape around them. Something was wrong.

Suddenly he spotted something dark against the pale blue of the Southern sky. It looked almost like a wisp of smoke, driven North by the wind…

"Strider," whispered Sam urgently. 'Strider, are you seeing what I see? It don't look like any cloud I've seen before.'

Aragorn made no answer for a moment. He stared at the fast-moving blur intently, his instincts on edge — then his stomach dropped.

"Lie flat and still," he hissed at Sam, pulling him down behind a bush. The others were all sleeping soundly; it would do no good to wake and warn them now.

"What is it?" the hobbit asked. But Aragorn pushed his head down and made himself as small as possible. A second later they were surrounded by birds.

They looked like large black crows, but their caws were harsher and their eyes sharper; Aragorn knew they were not natives. They passed overhead in a group so large and dense that it cast a shadow on the ground. Aragorn felt Sam shudder.

But in a whirl of wings they were gone. Aragorn stood and moved over to wake the wizard.

"What is it?" Gandalf asked.

"Regiments of crebain are flying over the land," he said. "Hollin is no longer a good place for us; it is being watched."

"In that case, so is the Redhorn Gate in the mountains," said Gandalf grimly, "and how we will get through the mountains now without being seen, I cannot imagine. But we will think of that when we must."

"As for our fire, it must be put out and not lit again," Aragorn said.

He let Sam get some rest, taking the remainder of his watch. As he stared out at the empty moors, his thoughts drifted to the party which had left only two days before the Fellowship. Had Tíniel been seen by the Enemy's spies? Was she safe? Was she alive? He tried to think on something else, but as the hours passed, her brown eyes remained imprinted on his mind's eye.

* * *

They had been walking nearly three weeks South toward the mountains, but to Tíniel the land did not seem to change. It was still the same dry, brown, heather-covered and tree dotted moor; the only thing that had changed was that the mountains now loomed above them.

Today as she rolled her blanket and strapped it to the saddle her fingers shook. Her breath came out in puffs of white, and her face felt numb. Winter was well on its way.

"We will climb today," Elrohir said. He looked up, his keen eyes narrowed against the weak sunlight. "This mountain is named Caradhras. There is a pass over it, the Redhorn Gate. If we make good time, we will keep this fair weather."

"We should carry wood up the mountain," she said, "in case of a storm."

"Very well," he agreed. "We will each cut a faggot of wood. But Tíniel, they must only be lit if it is a choice between fire or death. I fear this pass is being watched."

They cut the wood and set out. At first they made good speed, but soon the slopes became steeper and the path was blocked in places by fallen rocks which they had to lead their horses through. At midday they stopped at a place where the path was slightly wider. They didn't speak, and Tíniel loosened her sword in its scabbard; she could feel eyes on the back of her neck.

The further they climbed, the sharper the wind grew. It whistled ominously past the pair, making Tíniel's face numb. She hated the cold, but her discomfort was of secondary importance to their current plight; they were being followed.

"Can you hear anything?" she called ahead to Elrohir.

He shook his head. "The sound of the wind overpowers all others. Be wary, princess. Do not turn your back on anything."

"Not if I can help it," she muttered, glancing behind her. Elrohir disappeared around the turn in the path ahead, and in that split second, something flew down from above.

She knew it was an orc by the sound of the grunt he made when his knees hit her shoulders. She went down hard and landed on her stomach, pinned down by the weight of the orc on top of her. Her horse whinnied in panic, dancing a few steps back.

"An Elf and a Southerner," the orc hissed in the Black Speech. "They will be pleased when I show them your heads!"

Tíniel grunted. She was winded, and her arms were pinned beneath her so she couldn't draw her sword. She tried to jerk them free, but she froze at the sensation of a cold, sharp blade on the back of her neck.

"You are far from home, little Khandi," he breathed leaning down so his mouth was next to her ear. "There isn't much for your kind up here in the North."

Tíniel could hear the clashing of blades nearby. Elrohir was fighting, then. "I have a purpose in the North," she grunted in the same language. "I have my freedom. I have a king to follow."

The orc put pressure on the dagger, and its point penetrated her skin. "Since when did the Variag follow a _king_?"

"Since he decided to take back the free world," she spat. "Kill me if you wish, orc, but there will be another to fill my place, and another, and another. While the free peoples survive, they will fight for that freedom."

The creature seized her chin and twisted it painfully around so she could see his face. "I don't usually play with my food," he snarled, "but know this: your king is going to die. Sauron will see it done. But you…" He drew back his blade. "You won't."

"Elrohir!" she cried, and a moment later the weight on her back was gone. The orc was on his hands and knees, spitting blood, Elrohir standing above him. Tíniel got to her feet, sucking in deep breaths of the freezing air, and drew one of her _vokhu_. She grabbed the orc's head and put the knife to his throat.

"So long as creatures like you roam these lands, there will be no peace," she said in the Black Speech. "But I will see peace made, or die making it."

"Then you will die," the orc rasped.

"Not before you," she replied, and cut his throat. Warm, black blood spurted over her hands and his body collapsed to the ground.

"What did you tell him?" Elrohir asked, sheathing his sword.

"That our cause is right and true, and that we will see it done."

"It seems too good a thing to say in that tongue."

"All kinds of good things can be said in harsh languages, just as foul things can be said in gentle ones." She wiped the blood off her dagger but didn't yet sheath it. "How many did you kill?"

"Four," he said, then continued almost hesitantly. "Princess, I ask your forgiveness. I should have been here to protect you and I was not."

"There is nothing to forgive. It is not your responsibility to keep me alive."

"Even so."

"Even so, I am not dead. So there is nothing to forgive."

He nodded his thanks, then looked ahead. "We should ride through the night. The way is too dangerous, and the sooner we are off this mountain the better."

"Then let's get on our way," she said with a smile. Elrohir turned to lead the way again, and the smile slid from her face. The orc hadn't known what he was talking about, certainly. But the things he'd said — _your king is going to die…_

An image of Aragorn sprang to her mind. She couldn't let him die. She would die herself sooner than live without him. He was their hope.

But she had a sick feeling in her stomach. _Sauron will see it done…_

* * *

Aragorn sat in the dark, his naked sword laid across his knees. Although all the company was asleep in the room behind him, he felt alone. Who was he after all? A homeless orphan with nothing more than a noble name and a task before him that felt more insurmountable than the dark, gaping abyss of Moria that lay before him.

At least he had friends, he reminded himself. Elladan, Elrohir and Legolas. Boromir, one of the best men he'd ever known. And Tíniel. Their faces brought him comfort, but also a fear that he would lose them.

Suddenly he stiffened and gripped his sword. There had been a sound, some little movement from within the depths of the Mines… He listened carefully. The silence was deafening, save for the breathing of the others… A footstep sounded to his right and Boromir lowered himself to the ground beside him.

Aragorn exhaled with relief. "I thought you were a monster," he said. "I was going to make you shorter by a head."

Boromir's white teeth flashed in the dark. "I couldn't sleep," he replied. "This damned darkness weighs on me. I'll watch with you."

"I'll welcome your company," Aragorn said, trying to find Boromir's face in the darkness. He couldn't. "It will be better when we're out of this stale air."

"Never fear. Soon we'll fight side by side in the open fields of Gondor, face up to the darkness. He won't withstand that."

"I wish I could agree."

"You and your pessimism…"

"Realism, I like to call it."

"Tíniel would have something scathing to say to that."

Aragorn smiled into the heavy darkness. "I have no doubt of that. She has a light tongue and little regard for restraint."

"Honesty, she likes to call it,' Boromir replied. "It grates a little at first, but over the years I've come to appreciate it."

"She is lucky that you found her, Boromir. I can only imagine what would have happened if it was anyone else."

Boromir shook his head. "We weren't as good to her as we might have been," he said, "though the Valar know she'd been through enough. I personally ensured her imprisonment in Minas Tirith, which almost led to her killing herself."

Aragorn sat forward. "What?"

"It is a custom of her people that a warrior cannot be held prisoner in enemy lands. If escape is impossible. It is their law that they must die."

"But she didn't kill herself…"

"It was the first of the betrayals," Boromir said.

" _First for life,_ " Aragorn muttered. "So, the next will be for gold."

"If there _is_ another. You don't know Tíniel as I have. She would die sooner than betray anyone."

"I have come to know her a little," Aragorn said, "and I believe you. But fate is difficult to fight against. I think the prophecy will find a way."

"And you?" Boromir asked, a note of curiosity in his voice. "Will you find a way?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about Tíniel."

Aragorn stiffened. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"You're a bad liar," Boromir said bluntly. "Aragorn, I love that girl as my sister, and I have seen the way you look at her."

"Nothing is meant by it, Boromir."

"Then I am disappointed," Boromir replied, "for I can think of nobody more deserving of her regard than you. And in these times, if you come across happiness, you would be a fool to willingly let it slip through your fingers."

"It would be selfish of me to subject her to my life," Aragorn replied quietly. "Imagine Tíniel locked away in the halls of Minas Tirith, unable to walk free."

"Aragorn, look at us. We are in a ghost-infested mine on our way to Mordor to destroy a piece of jewellery. Don't look to a future with what you may or may not have. Look to what you have now."

"I have nothing now," Aragorn muttered. "I don't know if she's alive or dead. I don't know where she is. I don't know if I'll ever see her again, and I hope for her sake that I don't, because wherever this accursed Ring goes, trouble follows."

"The road ahead of us is long and hard," Boromir replied gently, "but so is hers. Take a little happiness for yourself, no matter how selfish."

Aragorn shook his head to the darkness and shut his eyes. Everything felt impossible — but when didn't it?

* * *

 _Mere moments after he had shut his eyes, he was dreaming. He didn't know how he knew; there was no way to distinguish it from real life in the caverns of Moria, for all around his was black darkness._

 _He held his breath and listened. To the right of him, he could hear a faint scuffling of feet. Well, he supposed there was no point in being cautious in a dream._

" _Who is there?" he called._

" _Aragorn?" came the reply, and his heart jumped into his throat._

" _Tíniel!" he breathed, and hands outstretched, careless of his own safety, he ran toward the sound of her voice. His fingers met the rough cloth of her tunic, and he pulled her into his arms, burying his head in her shoulder and revelling in the way she felt solid and warm and real._

" _Does this mean you're alive?" he breathed._

" _I am," she replied, and gently detached his arms from around her. "Aragorn, where are we? Are you safe?"_

" _I think you are where I am. In Moria."_

" _Moria?"_

" _An abandoned Dwarven mine," he said, and reached down to take one of her hands. "We didn't plan to come here, but it was the only path left to us. Where are you? Is Elrohir well?"_

" _Well enough," she replied. "We are well on the Eastern side of the Misty Mountains now. We had two run-ins with orcs, but we are fine. He says we should be at Lothlórien within a day or two."_

" _I am glad. You will be safe."_

" _But you won't."_

 _Her grip tightened on his hands and he closed his eyes briefly. If only things were simple._

" _Why are we here?" he asked, changing the subject. "Do you know why the Valar have sent us this dream?"_

 _He felt her shrug. "The gods tell me nothing. They only show me things I don't understand. And I can only be grateful for things like this, seeing you."_

" _Seeing is a strong word," he said, and she laughed quietly. The sound put him at ease._

" _Has something happened to the Company?" she asked him. "Anything that would make them want us to speak to each other?"_

 _He thought for a moment. "Not that I know of. They were all asleep, and I was on watch. Boromir came to watch with me."_

" _How is Boromir?"_

" _He is well. We all draw from his strength."_

" _That is good. What did you speak of?"_

" _The world. Things that might come to pass, and things that… shouldn't."_

" _There it is," she said, satisfied._

" _What?"_

" _The reason they sent me to you. Whenever you think of the future, you grow sad and hopeless. I know you well enough."_

" _And so the Valar have sent you to bring back my hope?"_

" _To snap you out of your misery," she corrected. She let go of his hand and reached up, fumbling in the dark, until she found his collar. Then she seized it and attempted to shake him by it. He couldn't help but laugh at her._

" _Wake up, fool," she said. "You are a lucky man; you have a mission, and there is nothing nobler in life than that."_

 _He shook his head ruefully. "You are right. As always." Although he could see nothing, he felt her smile._

" _I know," she said._

 _He hesitated for a moment, then spoke again. "It is truly a gift, to see you," he said._

" _For me too," she replied. "Give my love to Boromir, and my well wishes to Legolas and Gandalf, and all the others."_

 _He frowned. "Are you leaving?"_

 _She shrugged. "I can feel it ending," she said. "Until next time, Aragorn."_

 _He didn't want her to go. Almost desperately, he drew her in again, holding her tight. "You don't have to leave me," he whispered, but by the time the words had left his mouth she had dissolved into empty air. He woke up._

* * *

Tíniel woke suddenly, drawing in a shuddering breath and sitting up. Elrohir was at her side in a flash. "What is it?"

"A dream," she said, trying to slow her breathing. "But different to the others — I saw them."

"Who?"

"The Nine, the Company. I spoke to Aragorn."

The Elf frowned. "I do not understand you."

"We spoke to each other, just as you and I are speaking now, but in our dream."

He looked to the grey sky and shook his head. "The Valar work wonders."

"They are in Moria," she told him, getting to her feet and shaking out her blanket. "Dwarven mines, he said."

"This is not good at all," Elrohir muttered. "This is not the path that was planned for them. But there is little we can do to change anything now. Are they all alive?"

"Alive and well, so far as I know."

"Then we should be glad."

They were following a river called the Silverload through the land between the mountains and the wood. Today they rode with their hoods up and cloaks drawn close about them to ward off the rain sheeting down from above. It was cold but mysteriously beautiful, shrouding the grassy hills about them in thick white mist. As the grey sky grew darker, a shadow loomed on the horizon ahead of them.

"Lothlórien," Elrohir said with reverence. "We are almost there."

The sky cleared for them when the sun was gone, and the stars showed their faces between wisps of cloud. The pale moon illuminated the first silver-barked tree that they saw so that it shone like it was wrought of metal. Elrohir rested his palm on it and closed his eyes.

"Welcome to the Golden Wood, princess."

* * *

 **Hi everyone! I'm sorry for the slow update — this one was a bugger to edit. Expect another bit of a delay before the next one, because things are getting crazy here. BUT for enough reviews, I'll update before a month's time. Hope you enjoyed. Stay cool.**

 **S**


	17. The Mirror of Galadriel

**17 — THE MIRROR OF GALADRIEL**

* * *

They had barely entered the wood when they were intercepted by sentries. Eight of them dropped from the tree branches above, so silently that they seemed to just materialise out of the darkness.

The one that seemed to be their leader stepped forward. "Elrohir," he said.

"Orophin," Elrohir replied, and the two embraced. They began speaking quickly in their own tongue, so Tíniel took the opportunity to study the rest of the guards. They were all tall, all fair-haired and all dressed similarly. And each of them was staring at her curiously. She wondered if they usually did this, or if they had never seen a Southern woman before.

"This is Tíniel, my companion," Elrohir said, switching to the Common Tongue. "She has come to seek the Lady's advice."

"Welcome," Orophin said with a bow, then turned back to Elrohir and then said something in Elvish.

"Orophin says that the Lady Galadriel is expecting you," Elrohir told her. "He does not speak Westron, but he can understand some."

"Thank you," she said. Orophin said something else, and then Elrohir turned back to her to translate.

"He will take us to the city, which is not far from this place. But there are two days of travel to get there first."

Without warning the Elves began to walk into the forest. Quickly, Tíniel fell into step beside Elrohir.

"Will we not stop for the night?" she asked.

"There is a flet about two hours from here. We can rest there, if you require it."

"A flet?"

"It is a platform high in the trees. All dwellings are in the trees here."

Tíniel looked above her, but could only see pale yellow leaves, gleaming gently in the moonlight. Before she had come North, she had never seen a house. Now it seemed she was going to see a house in the sky.

"How is it that none of these Elves speak the Common Tongue?" she asked curiously. "Everyone in Imladris could."

"They have little reason to leave Lothlórien," Elrohir said, "and outsiders visit rarely."

"I should have made you teach me more Elvish on the road," she said. It was beginning to feel like her first days back on the _Haedannen_ again. She'd had Mahaya to translate for her then, but now she had Elrohir. At least she wasn't alone.

* * *

In the following day, the path they were walking on grew wider. Lothlórien was breathtakingly beautiful; the trees were enormous, their trunks disappearing in golden leaves only halfway up. The leaves themselves were yellow like pale sunlight, as though they had turned that way in autumn and forgotten to fall. But the grass beneath their feet was soft and green and dotted with little white flowers. It felt like something was protecting Lothlórien from the shadow that had fallen outside.

They had only been walking an hour or two yet that day. Elrohir was at the front of the party, conversing with one of the fair-haired Elves. At times they would glance back at her. Tíniel did not call out to question him, but she felt uneasy. She was at a disadvantage not being able to understand them.

At last, the Elves stopped walking and Orophin approached her. "No see," he said apologetically.

Tíniel frowned. "I don't understand," she said slowly.

Elrohir stepped forward and shook his head reluctantly. "They are going to blindfold you," he said.

She frowned. "I don't know this word."

"They are going to cover your eyes with a cloth while you are walking, because the location of the city is secret."

One of the guards stepped up behind her with a strip of cloth in his hands, and Tíniel ducked away from him. "Will you be wearing one?" she asked Elrohir.

He shrugged. "I already know where it is," he said. "I am sorry, princess, but cautious are they who wish to survive these times. I swear to you that no harm will befall you by it."

Tíniel hesitated, but then nodded reluctantly. What mattered more than her pride was getting to the city and speaking to Galadriel. The Elf stepped forward and tied the band behind her head. She was in the dark.

"I feel like a hooded falcon," she muttered, holding out her arms for balance. She heard Elrohir's bubbling laugh to her right, and he took her elbow to guide her.

"Do not fly away from us, little bird," he said.

They were walking again, but this time she was blind. Despite herself, she felt a stirring of fear in her stomach. Her friends in Rohan had warned her about the Golden Wood, where Men went in and never came back out again… her eyes remained wide behind the blindfold, but she kept her breathing slow. Elrohir was there beside her, and he guided her well so that she neither tripped nor stumbled.

And now that she was blind, her other senses sharpened. She could hear mysterious bird calls from high above, and the gentle sigh of the wind through the rustling leaves. She could smell the soil — a rich, foreign, earthy smell that seemed to clear her mind with each breath.

After a few hours they stopped. Tíniel was glad, because her body was beginning to ache from being held tense all the time so that she didn't fall. Elrohir's hand left hers, and she felt a light pressure on the back of her head. The cloth fell away, and she was blinded by the sudden sunlight. She shaded her eyes and blinked rapidly.

Oropher was standing before her, and he bowed in what seemed to be an apology. He seemed a good person; Elrohir trusted him, and her instincts told her to trust him too. Then again, Tcharum had always told her she had the instincts of a camel.

"Welcome," said the Elf, gesturing behind him. Tíniel looked up.

They were standing in a clearing, at the base of a lone hill that rose solemnly into the sky. In the soft grass at her feet there were dotted little star-shaped flowers. She crouched and picked one.

"Elanor," said Elrohir from beside her. She jumped, startled.

"Is that Elvish?" she asked.

"Yes. It is _Star of the West_ in the Common Tongue. They are tiny, but look closely and you will see how beautiful they are."

Tíniel smiled slightly. "Elves find beauty in everything."

"Because there is beauty in everything."

"Maybe," she said. She nodded at the other Elves around them. "There are more of them than there were before."

Elrohir nodded. "We are close to Caras Galadhon now, the city of Lothlórien. There, we shall have nothing to fear, unless we have brought evil with us."

Tíniel inadvertently thought of the prophecy but pushed it out of her mind just as quickly. "What is this place?"

"This is Cerin Amroth. I would you climb it someday, so you could see the wood all spread beneath you as an ocean of gold… but we have no time today. The Lady wishes to speak to you as soon as she may, I think."

As though they had been listening, the rest of the party began to move off. Tíniel felt a thrill of anticipation. She was off to meet the Elf-witch of Lothlórien.

They walked until the sunlight turned red, then disappeared altogether. As dusk fell, the enormous trees above were lit with blue-silver lanterns that glinted like stars. It was beautiful.

"Welcome to Caras Galadhon," Elrohir said, but Tíniel barely registered his voice.

They walked along a wide road running along a high wall of white stone that wound through the trees. Tíniel could hear faint singing from the other side; that's where the city was, she supposed. At length, they came to a gate. Orophin knocked twice, and when it swung open they made their way through.

Tíniel looked about curiously. All she could see were the bases of the gigantic trees. This was hardly a city, she thought. She looked to Elrohir, and he smiled slightly and pointed to one of the trees. At its base was a ladder, guarded by three Elves in silver mail and white cloaks.

"Once you climb a little, you will see," he said.

The guards didn't acknowledge her as she approached the ladder, but they called greetings to their friends in Elvish. Tíniel began to climb. The ladder carried her up into the branches of the tree until she reached a platform, empty except for the base of a staircase.

"Climb up those steps," came Elrohir's voice. Tíniel flinched; she hadn't heard him following her.

"Are you coming with me?" she asked.

"I need to speak with others, deliver the messages I was sent to deliver," he replied. One of the white-cloaked guards appeared at the top of the ladder.

"This is Rúmil," Elrohir said. "He will show you where to go." He took Tíniel's hand and squeezed it. "Do not fear anything here, princess. You are safe."

He disappeared back down the ladder, and Tíniel turned to Rúmil. "Well met," she said warily. "Do you speak the Common Tongue?"

Rúmil smiled and bowed his head, then gestured for her to lead the way up the staircase.

"I suppose not," she muttered, and they began to climb.

The stairs were numberless. They wound about the trunks of trees, and even between the trees, going higher and higher, until Tíniel decided it would be best not to look down. At length, they came to a wide platform. Rúmil turned and held out his hand as a signal to stop.

"Please," he said, his voice soft and lilting. "Wait." Tíniel nodded, and he promptly turned and left.

And so she waited. For a time, she stayed in the middle of the flet. Her left hand rested on the pommel of her sword almost unconsciously. But after a while, she ventured a few steps closer to the edge to look over. She had seen nothing like this city before; all was quiet and calm, dimly lit by the soft silver lanterns. From somewhere above her in the trees, she could hear faint Elvish singing.

"Tchakhura Makhyë," came a voice from behind her. Tíniel froze in place. For a split moment, the trees disappeared and Tcharum's face flashed before her eyes. Then he was gone, and she could breathe again.

"How do you know that name?" she said roughly. "What right do you have to say it?"

She couldn't see, but somehow Tíniel felt the person behind her smile. "I have been gifted with sight," the voice said. It was a woman's voice, but it contained more power than any voice Tíniel had heard before. "So, it is no so much my right, but my duty to speak your past, your present, and your future. You understand this burden, for to you too, the Valar have given sight. Your past has never left you, Tchakhura Makhyë. Nor has your future."

Tíniel turned to face the woman, and her fear died in her chest. "My name is Tíniel," she said quietly. The woman nodded, then turned and walked away. Tíniel followed.

The Lady of Lothlórien led her across many more flets, and they began to descend again. Tíniel walked, almost in a daze. It was as though everything — the lanterns, the singing, the voice of Galadriel, had hypnotised her into calmness. It didn't feel real, but more like a doom dream.

When they reached the ground, they continued walking, weaving through the trees silently. They came to a tall green hedge, and Galadriel passed through a doorway. On the other side there was a garden.

There were no trees there, so Tíniel could see the sky. The stars blinked back at her, white, fiery, silent, and somehow ominous. They had been there since the world was made, had seen every secret, witnessed every life and death. They made her shiver, and she looked back down. She followed the Lady down a long flight of steps until they were in the centre of the hollow.

At the bottom there was a pedestal that was carved like a tree. On its branches rested a wide basin, and beside that there was a silver ewer. Tíniel could sense something around it; it radiated some kind of familiar, ancient power.

Galadriel took the ewer and filled it from a stream that murmured through the garden. Then she poured the water into the basin and blew on it.

When the water had stilled, the Lady looked up at Tíniel. "Here is the Mirror of Galadriel," she said. "I have brought you here to look in it, if you will."

Tíniel stepped forward and peered over the rim. All she could see were the stars reflected. "What will I see? she asked.

"Many things I can command the Mirror to reveal," Galadriel answered, "and to some I can show what they desire to see. But for you, I think the Mirror will show things unbidden, and these things will be stranger and more profitable than those you wish to see. If you leave the Mirror free to work, I cannot tell what it will show you. Do you wish to look?"

Tíniel was silent. Galadriel spoke in the same strange manner of the Elves, but something else about the Lady gave her pause. She was beautiful, regal, graceful, and there was as much youth and joy in her eyes as there was gravity and wisdom. But she was watching Tíniel carefully, waiting, expecting something, and Tíniel wasn't sure what.

"It shows things that were, and things that are, and things that may yet be, but which it is showing, the wisest cannot tell. Will you look?"

"I think _you_ want me to look, Lady," said Tíniel.

Galadriel laughed gently and Tíniel had never heard a lovelier sound. "I do, but I will not advise you either way."

"I came here for answers," Tíniel said. "The gods give me none, only fragments of truths that I can only understand after they happen. Elrond advised me to do everything and nothing, as is his way. Can you give me an answer that I understand, an instruction that I can follow?"

"I am not a counsellor, and I can promise you nothing," answered Galadriel. "But look if you will and see what you may. Do not touch the water!"

Her heart beating, Tíniel stepped up to the pedestal, and bent over the Mirror. The water looked hard and dark, like polished black stone, and it reflected only the stars. Then suddenly, as though a veil had been lifted off it, it turned grey, and then clear.

Tíniel saw a dark chasm, spanned by a thin bridge of stone. A man stood alone on the bridge, grasping a sword and a staff in defiance of the enormous shadowy being that spread fiery wings each wider than a ship's sail. The man did not seem to be afraid, but looked alone and small, glimmering in the gloom. The monster swung its sword, but the man parried with mighty strength. The creature's blade fell in pieces, and hissing it stepped forward onto the bridge. But then the man brought his staff down on the stone, and the bridge cracked, then broke. The monster screamed as it fell into the abyss, but it curled its whip around the man's knees, and the man fell with him.

The vision disappeared, replaced by a grassy, sunlit landscape. A line of _variag_ made their way wearily forward, walking in single file with their heads down. Their red tunics were bloody and torn, their wounds covered with makeshift bandages. Two of them were carrying a stretcher, and on the stretcher lay a body. They brought the body closer and closer to Tíniel, until she could see the cold, dead face of her father, his eyes unseeing, dried blood around his open mouth. His chest was opened, and flies buzzed around the wide, jagged gash. His limp hands grasped his sword.

Then his face dissolved, and Tíniel saw Harûk, her old friend. He was walking through a great hall, and Mahaya was by his side. They were followed by all the crew of the Haedannen, save Remuil. They stopped walking, and kneeled, their heads bowed in respect. Tíniel saw the throne before them and realised that they were in the throne room in Minas Tirith. There was a person seated in the throne, but she could not tell who… And before she could look more closely, the scene changed again.

She saw Remuil standing alone on a ship, his eyes fixed on the shore with indecision. At last, he made his choice and steered toward the river mouth, heading inland. His long black hair was tied back, and his lips moved in a song. She saw a single tear spill from his eye, and he wiped it away with his hand, the palm scarred and burned just as she had remembered. Then the image dissolved into grey.

Then Aragorn was standing on a ridge, alone. There was a river between them, but Tíniel could tell that he was watching her. He raised his arm, as though he was saying farewell. She saw herself backing away, running away from him. And she could see the tears on his cheeks.

Tíniel wrenched herself away from the basin, her whole body shaking. "What did I see?" she gasped. "What did I _see_?"

"Do not be afraid," said the Lady softly. "Perhaps these things will come to pass, and perhaps they will not."

"Or perhaps they already have," replied Tíniel miserably. She dropped to the ground and put her head in her hands. The face of her father, twisted in death, was painted on the back of her eyelids. If things had not gone so terribly wrong, she would have been there to protect him. She felt a soft touch on her face, and she looked up. Galadriel was kneeling beside her, and gently brought her face up.

"All will be well, princess," she said. "I can give you now an answer that you understand, as you so wished. Walk with me."

Tíniel slowly got to her feet and took a steadying breath before following Galadriel out of the garden.

"We are similar in some ways, you and I," said the Lady. "Many ages ago, I was a great warrior among my people. I fought just as well, and better, than the menfolk. I was taller and stronger, and prouder than them too."

"Why don't you fight any longer?" Tíniel asked.

"It was long ago, and I have found there are better ways of fighting. There are swords sharper than the ones wielded in battle. I occupy myself with these."

Tíniel didn't understand her words, but she didn't question them. "What is it that you can tell me?" she said.

Galadriel smiled at her directness. "Do you remember the river you saw in my Mirror?"

"I do," Tíniel answered. She remembered Aragorn's agonised face better, though.

"This river is the Anduin, which runs through Lórien. This is the path you must take."

Tíniel frowned. "But to where? And why?"

The Lady laughed a sudden, clear laugh. "Questions that will be answered soon enough! Your body is wearied from your journey, and your heart is wearied by the things you saw in my Mirror. There is time for rest here, princess. You are protected."

"But what of the prophecy?" Tíniel asked desperately, suddenly not wanting to be left alone. "I came to ask what you could tell me about it. Please, I…" her voice almost broke, and she took a deep breath. "Nobody can tell me anything, and I am afraid."

"We should never be frightened by what we do not know," she chided gently. Then something sparked deep in her eyes. "But now, may I ask you a question?"

"Of course," Tíniel replied, trying to quell her disappointment.

"In my mirror, you saw a man on a ship," she said. "What was his name?"

"Remuil," Tíniel answered, frowning a little. "I knew him as Remuil."

"I see," was all Galadriel replied with. Somehow Tíniel sensed that there was something more going on, that the presence of Remuil in her mirror hadn't been a mistake. But Galadriel's smile returned, and she laid a hand on Tíniel's shoulder.

"All will be well, princess," she repeated. "Sleep will bring you peace, for now. You will not dream tonight. Go, and be easy."

The Lady turned and walked away, but she was just as quickly replaced by Rúmil, who led Tíniel up to a flet where there was a room with a bed and a basin. As soon as the door shut behind her, Tíniel sank to the ground and began to sob. She was alone in a city of immortal beings, and all she wanted was a friend to help her push away the image of her father's body. Instead she cried alone.

* * *

The next morning, there was a knock on Tíniel's door. "Come in," Tíniel called. The door opened, and an Elf-maiden entered. She bowed slightly to Tíniel, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor sharpening her _mithiri_.

"My lady," the Elf said. "I hope there is little use for your blades here."

"There is use for blades everywhere," Tíniel replied, not looking up. In her peripheral vision, she saw the Elf move to her dresser.

"You have eaten none of the food left for you, lady," she said.

"I had no appetite," Tíniel muttered.

"You mortals are strange beings," the Elf said, and came over to sit opposite Tíniel on the ground. "Lady, is there something I can do for you?"

Tíniel looked up and met her eyes. They were ancient and seemed all-seeing, as all Elven eyes were. Imagine being waited upon by an immortal being, Tíniel thought. Now she didn't have to.

"I don't think so," she replied, looking back down at her sword.

"Then perhaps there is something you can do for me," the Elf replied. "Your journey has been long and hard, I think."

Tíniel raised her eyebrows. "What gave it away?" she asked sarcastically.

"The smell," the Elf replied dryly, rising gracefully to her feet. "Come with me, and I will show you where you can wash."

Tíniel hesitated, but then got to her feet and sheathed her sword. "Very well," she said.

The Elf led her down through the branches until they were walking on the ground again. Tíniel followed her into cave whose entrance was covered by vines. Inside were pools of steaming water.

"My lady," said the Elf, her voice gentle and earnest. "I know that you are afraid, and that you nurse your wounds. Lothlórien is a place to heal, if you allow it. I advise you, forget your troubles as best you can." She placed a hand on Tíniel's chest, and Tíniel could suddenly feel her own heart beating. "Call for me should you need anything," the Elf said, then turned and silently left.

Tíniel stripped off her tunic and underclothes and sank into the hot water. It hurt at first, but she became accustomed to it soon enough. She ran her fingers absent-mindedly through the water, thinking. The Lady Galadriel had given her a direction, just as she'd asked. But she'd also withheld information about the prophecy. What was she waiting for? Tíniel was ready to leave, to continue on her journey, but now she had to wait for the Lady to decide when to share what she knew. And so she would have to wait.

Her eyes drifted shut, and her mind drifted too. She remembered the line of her people, battle-wearied and carrying their dead Khondyë. If this was true, if it ever came to pass… that would mean _she_ was the Khondyë. She had been exiled by her tribe, hadn't seen or spoken to any one of them for almost five years. But blood was blood. She was the Khondyë's firstborn, the Makhyë, and if he was dead, that meant she was Khondyë of the Maruvikh tribe of Khand.

But she had seen other things too. She had seen a man fight a monster of fire and darkness, and fall into a great black chasm. Tíniel sighed. She had no idea what that vision had meant, who the man had been, if the event had passed or was a vision of the future.

She'd seen Harûk, Mahaya who she'd believed dead, and her old friends walking past the statues of the dead kings in the throne room of Minas Tirith. Why would they ever go to the city? And why did they kneel before the throne? At least, she thought, the vision meant there was a chance they were still alive.

She'd seen Remuil make some kind of terrible choice to leave the sea, a decision about which she knew nothing but which she somehow felt was important.

And there was Aragorn. She had seen pain in his eyes, a tear trickling down his cheek. Because of her. She was going to do something in the future, something that hurt him. But she didn't want to. She didn't want to fulfil the prophecy. She didn't want to betray the people she loved. She didn't want to be Khondyë of a tribe that hated her. What if she just ran away, as she'd always told Remuil she would? What if she went North, as far as North goes, and hid herself away, living in isolation for the rest of her life? The decision half-made, she felt a sense of peace settle over her…

 _But then she was dreaming. She was standing above a sea of people. She was wearing a crown, and everyone bowed before her, kneeling in reverence. She knew in her heart that she could command anything, and the people would do it._

 _But she shook her head and looked to the sky. "You don't understand me," she called to the gods. "You think that all mortals want is power, that having power will justify every moment of pain that I cause the people around me. But it will not." She reached up and took the crown of twisted gold off her head. "I just want peace," she whispered. "Can you give me that?"_

 _The thousands of people before her dissolved, blown away like sand in the wind. There was only one man before her now._

" _Aragorn," she breathed._

 _He looked up, and his eyes were tortured. "Something terrible has happened," he said, his voice breaking. Tíniel ran to him and wrapped her arms tightly around him, feeling his whole body shaking._

" _Hush now. I am with you," she breathed, smoothing his hair. Gradually, the shaking eased and his heartbeat slowed. She looked back up to the sky. "Alright," she said to the gods. "You win. I will stay. Not for power, but for them."_

* * *

Aragorn jerked awake, breathing heavily. The doom dream had lasted mere moments, and he could still feel Tíniel's warmth. Reality sank back in and he squeezed his eyes back shut, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

Gandalf was dead. Gandalf, their leader, was gone and now the task fell to Aragorn to guide the Fellowship. He was neither worthy nor capable, of that much he was sure; but he had to pretend otherwise, for the sake of the hobbits.

They needed to regroup, to rest for a moment and prepare for the next leg of their journey. Aragorn knew Lothlórien was the logical choice, but he was reluctant to take the Ring there. It would endanger the wood and all within it… and yet they needed supplies. The hobbits needed rest. Legolas was visibly exhausted, and he was fairly sure that Boromir was wounded, though the man insisted he was fine. And so, to Lothlórien they would go. And if Tíniel was still there… so be it.

* * *

Tíniel lay flat on her back, shut in the room they had given her. It was her third night in the Golden Wood, and still Galadriel had not summoned her. All she did was eat and sleep, never leaving her platform. She would rather stay shut away than go out and realise how alone she was, she reasoned.

 _She knew she was asleep when the doom dream began. She was on one of the platforms in the trees, just outside the city walls. She crouched and peered over the edge to the path below; there was a group of Elves… and Men? She squinted, trying to see through the leaves. There were Elves, yes, but there were eight others…_

" _They are here," came a melodious voice from behind her. Tíniel turned; Galadriel was looking down at the path too._

" _The Company," Tíniel murmured. "Here? In this dream, or in real life?"_

" _They are truly here," the Lady replied, her eyes grave. "And they will be here when you wake. Come to me, child. Wherever you are, come to me."_

Tíniel woke with a start, pulled her boots back on and quickly strapped her _vokhu_ to her back. Then she left at a run. They were here.

* * *

 **In honour of passing 100 reviews, here is a chapter earlier than promised! Thanks a million to everyone who has left a review so far. I'm publishing here specifically for feedback and every little bit is super appreciated! Please, if you're reading, take a minute and let me know what you think!**

 **As for the reviews of the last few chapters — some of you are right on the ball with what you reckon is going to happen! Then again, some of the others are way off... Keep guessing! Hope you enjoy.**

 **S**


	18. Lothlórien

**18 — LOTHLORIEN**

* * *

Aragon followed Haldir into the great hall, the Fellowship behind him. The building was upon a wide flet, dizzyingly high in the air, but for Men it could easily have served as the great hall of one of their castles.

The chamber they were in was oval-shaped, and in the middle grew the bole of the mallorn tree they had climbed. Even though they were near to the top of the tree, the trunk was still too wide for three men to stretch their arms around. The chamber was softly lit; its walls were green and silver, and its roof was gold. On two chairs at the base of the bole sat Celeborn and Galadriel, side by side.

They both rose to greet the arrivals. They were tall, grave and beautiful; their eyes were keen and piercing.

"Welcome, Frodo of the Shire!" Celeborn said. Galadriel remained silent, but her eyes rested on Frodo's face for a time.

"And welcome to you, Aragorn son of Arathorn," Lord Celeborn continued. "It is eight and thirty years of the world outside since you came to this land; and those years lie heavy on you. But the end is near, for good or for ill. Lay your burdens down here for a while!"

Aragorn bowed, and looked to Galadriel. Her deep eyes met his, and he felt a soothing presence upon his mind.

 _You have done well, my child,_ a voice whispered in his head. He knew it was her. _Let your heart be easy, for here you may rest and be free of fear._ Her eyes crinkled in a half-smile. _And there is somebody here for you._

His heart leapt in his chest. _Tíniel?_ he asked, but her eyes had moved on.

When they were all seated, Celeborn folded his hands before him. "Here there are eight," he said. "Nine were to set out. So said the messages. But maybe there has been some change of counsel that we have not heard. Elrond is far away, and the shadows have grown longer."

"Nay, there was no change of counsel," said the Lady Galadriel. Her voice was soft, deep and musical. "Gandalf the Grey set out with the Company, but he did not pass the borders of this land. I cannot see him from afar; the ways of his feet and mind are hidden from me."

Aragorn's head felt heavy, but he lifted it to meet the Lady's eyes.

"Gandalf fell into shadow," he said dully. "He did not leave Moria. He is dead."

At this, the other Elves in the hall cried out in grief. Aragorn's heart wrenched at the sound.

"These are evil tidings," Celeborn said quietly, "the most evil that have been spoken here in long years full of grievous deeds." He turned to Haldir and spoke in Elvish. "Why has nothing of this been told to me before?"

"We did not speak to Haldir of our deeds or of our purpose," Legolas said. "We were weary, and danger was close behind. It was a Balrog of Morgoth that Mithrandir fought, of all the elf-banes the most deadly, save Sauron himself."

"Needless were none of the deeds done by Gandalf in life," Galadriel said sadly, switching back to the Common Tongue. "You came to this land seeking aid, as Gandalf himself plainly purposed; and not in vain will it prove, I hope. The Lord of the Galadhrim is accounted the wisest of the Elves of Middle-earth, and a giver of gifts beyond the power of kings."

She stood again and her eyes rested on each of them in turn. "But this I will say to you: your Quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and it will fail, to the ruin of all. Yet hope remains while the Company is true."

"Go now!" said Celeborn. "You are worn with sorrow and much toil. Tonight you shall sleep in peace."

An Elf stepped forward to lead them to where they would sleep, but as Aragorn turned to go, his eyes met Galadriel's and he felt the brush against his conscience again.

 _Come with me, Aragorn Arathorn's son,_ her voice whispered. She stood and turned, exiting the chamber through a small doorway. He followed her.

She led him down flights of steps that wound through the trees. They passed several Elves who bowed solemnly to the Lady. Aragorn heard a song of mourning echo down from somewhere above. It seemed the news of Gandalf's fall had spread fast.

At last they reached the ground. Galadriel turned to look at him, her eyes probing his mind.

"What did you say to the others before?" he asked. "When you were looking at them?"

"I offered them a choice," she replied softly. "Between the shadow that lies ahead, and something they greatly desire."

"You didn't offer me a choice," he said.

"There is no choice for you, my child," she said gently, smiling sadly. "I know your heart: it is noble, and desires justice above all else. And to find justice, you must walk into the shadow."

Misery settled into his heart and his shell crumbled. "Why can't something be easy for me, Lady?" he whispered. "Why can't there be something good, something bright in the shadow?"

Galadriel's smile seemed to turn to one of secret gladness. "Not all is darkness and despair, Aragorn." She gestured behind her, and Aragorn saw that there was a stone path that curved through a green garden. "She is waiting for you there," she said.

"Tíniel," he breathed. He had forgotten. She was here. He looked back to Galadriel. "My lady, thank you."

She reached up, and the tips of her fingers touched his cheek. He felt some kind of peacefulness steal into his heart. "Go now," she said. "Tonight, you will sleep."

He turned and walked into the garden. In the moonlight it was beautiful and mysterious. The white roses shone silver, but the red ones were the colour of fresh-spilled blood. He looked away quickly and walked on.

She was only a little way in. She sat on a stone bench, her face upturned and her eyes closed. She was wearing the dark yellow dress that her friend in Minas Tirith had made for her. She looked peaceful, and Aragorn almost regretted bringing the Ring and the war back to her. She didn't deserve it. But when he looked at her, his chest constricted. He was glad, so glad to see her again.

"Tíniel?" he said softly. Her eyes flew open, and they met his. She stood, and in a few short strides she was before him. She threw her arms around him, and he returned the embrace, breathing her in.

"I'm sorry to come here. I didn't mean to bring it all back to you," he murmured. She seemed to understand.

"I knew you were coming," she replied in his ear. "I saw it."

He gave a short laugh, pulling back so he could see her, but not entirely releasing her. "Of course you did."

She took in his face, his eyes, and her brow creased. "What happened?" she asked. "Aragorn, what's wrong?"

His composure, the mask he'd been wearing for the past few days, began to slip away. "Our journey was hard," he began, fighting to keep it in place. "We went into a lair of enemies by mistake, and…" His face crumpled. "Gandalf is dead."

Wordlessly, she took his hand and pulled him over to the stone bench. He sat, and she hugged him tightly. He buried his face in her shoulder.

"He saved us all," he said miserably, the scene playing over in his mind. "He fought a beast ten, twenty times his size… he saved us, and I did _nothing_ to stop what happened."

"You could not have done anything," Tíniel murmured, stroking his hair. "Aragorn, this is not your fault."

"You can't know that," he said bitterly, pulling away and standing, angry at his show of weakness. "You weren't there, you didn't see me stand there and _watch_ —"

"I saw it," she said softly. "I saw Gandalf fall in the Mirror. And I swear to you, there is nothing you could have done to save him. What's done is done."

Aragorn drew in a shuddering breath. "It is done," he repeated. "And now I must lead them on."

"Not yet," Tíniel said. "Don't think about leaving yet. First you will stay, and rest. You'll be safe here."

He let out the breath and sat back down beside her. "I am sorry for shouting."

"Don't be. You are grieving."

He looked up, his face shadowed. "I missed you."

"And I you," she said. "The dreams are hardly enough."

He was filled with the sudden urge to take her face in his hands and kiss her soundly. He didn't.

"Have you learned anything here, about the prophecy?" he asked instead.

She shrugged. "A little. I am to go South, along the Anduin. And I saw… things in the Lady's Mirror. But she will tell me nothing else."

"Then take your own advice," he said. "Be patient, wait here a while. Rest. Be easy."

She smiled slightly. "Easier to do now you are here."

His heart swelled foolishly, and he wondered what he was to do about it all. A problem for later, he decided. He took her hand. "Come on. Boromir and the others will want to see you."

He led her through the wood, out of the garden and along a path. At last, they came to a clearing near the fountain where the Elves had set up a pavilion and brought beds for the Company to sleep on. Aragorn and Tíniel paused before they were seen, and listened to the talk.

"What were you blushing for, Sam?" Pippin was asking. "Anyone would think you'd never been looked at by a pretty girl before."

"That's not true," Sam answered hotly. "If you want to know, I felt as though I hadn't got nothing on, and I didn't like it. She seemed to be looking right inside me."

"That's funny," Merry spoke up. "Almost exactly what I felt myself, only… well, I don't think I'll say any more."

"Fair choice, Merry," Gimli said. "The choice she showed me will remain known only to me."

"There was little matter of choice for me," Boromir said staunchly. "The Men of Minas Tirith are true to their word. But I don't know about this Elvish Lady. What did she mean by reading all our minds? And what has she done with Aragorn?"

Aragorn exchanged a glance with Tíniel, and they stepped out of the shadow.

"Here I am," he said. "And look who I found hiding between the trees!"

There was a general exclamation when they saw her, but Boromir was first up. "You're alright," he breathed, almost squeezing the life out of her. "And alive. Thank the Valar."

She pulled back and examined him. "And you? Are you hurt?"

He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. "Well... not badly."

Tíniel scowled at him. "Have it seen to, foolish man." Her eyes softened. "I am glad to see you again, Boromir."

"And I am glad to see you, little sister."

"Princess!" came Legolas' voice, and Tíniel had to turn away to greet the others.

That night, despite his weariness, Aragorn had doubted that he'd find rest. But Galadriel was true to her word. The moment he lay down and closed his eyes, he fell into a long, deep sleep.

* * *

The Elves mourned Gandalf in their own strange way. They sang endless, eerie elegies over the following days, songs that filled the Golden Wood with a strange melancholy. The melodies reminded her of Remuil's singing.

Tiniel was sorry that the wizard was dead. He had been kind to her, a friend who had understood her more than many others had been able. She respected him; she had seen how he died, giving his life so that the others could go on, so that the Quest could succeed. It was a noble way to die.

But she had other things to dwell on. What was she to do now? She hadn't seen Galadriel since the night the Fellowship had arrived, and she knew nothing more about what she was to do.

And the more time she spent around the others, the more she became concerned about the fate of their Quest. They were marching the Ring, Sauron's greatest source of power, straight into his arms. If he were to regain it, the whole of Middle Earth would be doomed — and yet they were to hand it straight back to him, and the Fellowship would undoubtedly die in the process. Tíniel had sworn to Faramir that she would protect his brother with her life, and allowing him to walk into Mordor felt like the opposite of that.

If it had been up to her, they would use the Ring, deploy Sauron's most powerful weapon against him, defeat him at his own game. But she was neither a thousand years old nor some old powerful lord, so what she thought mattered little.

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed in Lothlórien; time seemed to fold around them, to pass around the wood like a river parted by a stone. Tíniel was glad to see Aragorn somewhat at peace, but Boromir seemed ill at ease.

"Your path lies along the Anduin, you said," he said one evening when they were walking by the river. "So we should go South together, following the river. That will lead us back to Gondor."

"You can't leave the Fellowship though," she argued. "You said yourself, the Men of Minas Tirith keep their word."

"If I have my way, the Company will come with us back home," Boromir replied. "It is a good foothold. We can make our way into Mordor from there. And at any rate, I need to return to the City to oversee its defence. I've neglected my duty there for too long."

"You know I won't go with the Ring," Tíniel said firmly. "It cannot be betrayed to Sauron, not at any cost."

He sighed frustratedly. "Very well."

"Don't despair," she said. "I am sure Aragorn will have an idea of where to go."

A gleam came into Boromir's eyes. "I suppose he will."

Tíniel frowned. "Hm."

"Aragorn is quite the hero, is he not?"

"He is a good fighter, and we are lucky to have him," she answered, unsure of what Boromir was playing at.

He sighed a second time. "You are so blind, sister," he said.

"Blind to what?"

"Do you not love him?"

Tíniel's steps faltered slightly, but she recovered quickly. "What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean," Boromir said, stopping and turning to face her. "You are smitten with him, and he with you."

Tíniel looked at her feet. "Things are not so easy as that," she muttered. "I don't have the time for what you Northmen call love."

"Why ever not?"

She sat heavily on the river bank and took off her boots. Pulling her skirts up, she dangled her feet in the water. "I have never… _felt_ anything like this before."

He sat beside her, cross-legged. "Were you not to be wed back in Khand?"

"Yes," she said softly. "To a good man, Borund. I was sworn to him at birth, and we knew that we would be wed our whole lives. I loved him, of course I did, but…" she shrugged. "It was the kind of love I have for you, for Faramir. It was powerful, but familiar. I would have died for him in the blink of an eye, but… I don't know if I could have _lived_ for him."

"But you could for Aragorn?" he asked softly.

"I don't know," she whispered. "I was happy to marry Borund, because it was my duty. It was the Law, it was meant to be that way. But now, what I feel for Aragorn…" she trailed off again, then looked up at Boromir, her eyes earnest. "But it doesn't matter," she said. "For all I know, Borund is still alive, and so long as he lives, I am bound to him."

"Tíniel, you can't be serious," Boromir argued. "They forced you out, tried to execute you!"

"An oath is an oath," Tíniel countered. "And I won't betray this one."

"And if you never see him again?"

"Then I will remain alone and unmarried," she said unwaveringly. "That doesn't frighten me. I will fight with Aragorn, protect him until I die, but as for… other matters, I will be silent."

"Tíniel, she who is silent," said Boromir. He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her over so she was leaning against him. "Oh my poor, silent little sister."

"Not your sister," she muttered, but she rested her head on his shoulder anyway, wondering why she had to have been born the Makhyë, trapped by promises. For a moment, there was a comfortable silence. She felt beyond glad that she had the chance to speak with him again.

"I think my father is dead," she said quietly.

"What?" Boromir asked, pulling back.

"I saw his body, torn apart. I saw him being carried away."

"Tíniel…"

"He was not kind to me," she continued quickly. "But if the vision was true, I am sorry he is gone."

"He was your father," Boromir said gently. "You are allowed to mourn."

"If he really is dead, I am no longer a princess," she said. "I am the chief, and the tribe is mine."

"Does this mean…" he trailed off, and his eyes widened. "So you would be safe if you went back to your people."

"If he is dead and I am Khondyë… yes."

Boromir looked into the dark water of the river, his mouth set in a hard line. "Will you go back? Or will you stay with us?"

She smiled and pulled his arm back around her shoulders. "I will stay," she said. "I have no idea where they are, who they are fighting for. I have a duty to return to them, just as you must return to Minas Tirith, but there is nothing I can do for it yet."

"Thank the stars," Boromir muttered. They stayed there until the moon was high in the sky.

* * *

The next night, Tíniel climbed to the highest flet she knew of in Caras Galadhon. It was empty, and far enough away from the others that she trusted she wouldn't be disturbed. She waited until the rim of the sinking red sun touched the horizon, then she began to sing.

It was tradition that the words would be sung in mourning over the body of a member of _khopyë_ , family. Tíniel fixed her eyes on the red sun and saw her father's face in the brightness.

" _Man of my blood, journey on,"_ she sang in Khandi. Boromir had told her she had the right to mourn her father, no matter the man he had been, and he was right.

" _May the gods carry you gently,"_ she continued, watching the sun. Her father had been a hard man, but he had taught her everything she knew.

She drew in another deep breath. _"Go swiftly into the lands where blood does not fall."_ He had been a good Khondyë, a strong leader. Gods grant that she could be the same, she thought.

" _Go swiftly into the Great Fire and be at peace."_ The sun had almost disappeared behind the mountains in the West. Swiftly, she drew her knife and made a cut across her palm. She let the red drops fall glistening to the wood of the flet. As its last rays shone over the land before her, Tíniel closed her fist and put it to her shoulder in salute.

" _Khuma Khondyë_ ," she whispered. "Your blood will guide you away." The sun vanished, and she let her eyes drift shut.

"Tíniel?" came a voice behind her. She whirled, but relaxed when she saw it was Aragorn.

"How did you find me?" she asked.

"I wanted to speak to you, so I followed you," he said. "I didn't want to interrupt your song."

"It was a funeral song," she said. "For my father."

"He is dead?"

"I saw it," she said softly, turning back to the Western sky.

He stepped forward and took her hands in his. "I am sorry," he said quietly. Then he quickly took her hand in his. "You are hurt!"

"No," she said, pulling her hand away. "It is a symbol. One of my blood has passed, and so I lose my blood."

He nodded in comprehension, quiet for a moment. Then he drew in a breath. "Tíniel, I wanted to speak about something with you."

Tíniel's heart dropped, and she closed her eyes briefly. It was painful, one of the more painful things she'd ever had to do. But after she'd spoken with Boromir at the river, she knew it was her duty.

"I want to say something first," she said clumsily. Aragorn frowned, but nodded for her to continue.

"I am grateful for everything you have done for me," she said, not meeting his eyes. "And I have great regard for you. I value our friendship, and I love you —" the words stuck in her throat, but she forced them out. "I love you as my brother."

Reluctantly, she looked up. Aragorn's eyes were filled with pain, and her heart wrenched.

"Are you certain?" he asked softly, his voice almost breaking. "Are you sure it has to be this way?"

So he knew. She nodded mutely, trying to blink back the damned tears springing to her eyes. He reached a shaking hand up to touch her cheek, and she shivered even though she was not cold. There was no pretence any more.

"Is there no way," he breathed, stepping closer, "no way that anything could happen? Because if there is, just tell me how. Please." He moved closer still, so that they were breathing the same air. His hand dropped to rest on her shoulder. "I will do anything, Tíniel. _Anything._ You don't understand…"

"I do," she whispered, her heart racing. Despite herself, a single tear escaped her eye. "But there is no way. It is impossible."

She knew she had to pull away, but she couldn't; instead she savoured the feeling of having him so close to her, the feeling of his warmth…

"I can't," she mumbled, to herself more than him, looking up to meet his eyes. _"We_ can't. It isn't possible, Aragorn, there are things at play that you don't understand, and —"

He leaned in and with the utmost gentleness pressed his lips to hers. Tíniel froze, and for a second time stood still. Then he pulled away.

"Are you certain?" he asked again, his voice hoarse. _No,_ she thought. By the stars, she had never felt less certain about a decision in her life.

"Yes," she whispered, not trusting herself to say anything more. He nodded and stepped back.

"Very well," he said. "I will leave you be."

Another tear tracked down Tíniel's cheek, but she nodded. "You have blood on your hands," she said quietly. "My blood. You should wash it off."

He looked down at them and nodded absently. He began to descend the ladder, but before he disappeared, he looked back up at her. "Was everything a lie?" he asked hopelessly.

Tiniel took a deep breath to compose herself. "I don't lie," she replied, and turned back to watch the moon rise.

* * *

 _She was standing on a beach. It wasn't one she recognised, but she could have easily passed it in her days on the_ Haedannen _. She walked forward, the sand squeaking between her toes, until the water lapped against her feet. She didn't stop._

 _She walked into the sea, her steps unfaltering and rhythmic. The water was at her knees, then her hips, then her chest. Still she went on, until her head was underwater. She looked around; everything was blue and speckled with sunlight._

 _Then she was floating, and she could see the ocean floor drop away beneath her. It was fathomless, greater and deeper than anything she'd seen before. But she was no longer alone. Gandalf suddenly appeared beside her in a torrent of bubbles. He didn't float. He sank into the depths, clawing desperately at the water._

 _Then her father's body plunged into the water beside her. He sank rapidly too, reaching up for help, his eyes meeting hers. His lips formed the word "Tchakhura", and bubbles spilled from his mouth, but Tíniel heard nothing. She watched him sink, helpless to do anything._

 _Then Borund fell in, and sank, his eyes wide with terror. He tried hopelessly to swim back up, but the current pulled him down._

" _No!" Tíniel cried out, but her voice was muffled by the water, and Borund was swallowed in blue. She began to swim downward to save him, but at that moment a new body hurled into the water in a deluge of bubbles._

 _It was Boromir._

 _Tíniel began swimming down frantically to catch him. His arm reached up to her, his eyes pleading. She kicked as hard as she could, her legs burning with the effort. Their hands were close, their fingers almost touching… she gave one final push, reaching out to grab hold of his hand…_

"Tíniel!" came a voice. She jerked awake, breathing quickly. It was Legolas.

"What is it?" she asked, getting to her feet. It was dark, but the moon wasn't high in the sky. She must have lost consciousness just after Aragorn left.

"You sleep in strange places," Legolas said, smiling his strange smile. He stepped forward and caught her hand, taking a cloth from his pocket and binding it. "You should wash this," he said. "But first, come with me. We have been summoned once more to the chamber of Celeborn, to speak of our departure."

Tíniel climbed down the ladder after him. "How did you know to find me here?" she asked.

"Elves have keen hearing," he replied. "I heard your song."

"Is that all?" she said, coming to the bottom and eyeing him sceptically.

"Very well," he said, looking slightly guilty. "I saw Aragorn leave the flet too."

She sighed, the heartache returning. "Is he… did he seem well?"

"No, princess, he did not."

"Oh," she said lamely.

"Are you sure of your decision?"

Of course the damned Elf knew everything, she reflected glumly. "There is no other way, Legolas."

"Do you despise him?"

"Certainly not! Why would you think that?"

"The emotions of mortals are changeable and hard to gauge. But if you do not loathe him, that is enough for me."

"Let's just go," Tíniel muttered.

* * *

The other seven were waiting when Tíniel and Legolas entered the hall. Celeborn looked grave as ever, and Galadriel met Tíniel's eyes pityingly, as though she knew of all the events that had taken place that evening. Tíniel didn't doubt it, and quickly looked away.

"Now is the time," Celeborn began, "when those who wish to continue the Quest must harden their hearts to leave this land. Those who no longer wish to go forward may remain here, for a while. But whether they stay or go, none can be sure of peace."

There was a silence. "They are all resolved to go forward," Galadriel said, looking into the eyes of each of the Company.

"As for me, my way home lies forward," Boromir said.

"That is true," Celeborn said. "But is all the Company going with you to Minas Tirith?"

"We haven't yet decided our course," said Aragorn. Tíniel kept her eyes downward as he spoke. "I don't know what Gandalf meant to do after coming here."

"Maybe not," Celeborn replied. "But the Great River can no longer be ignored from here. It cannot be crossed by travellers with baggage, save by boats. On which side will you journey? The straight road of the Quest lies on the Eastern side, but the road to Minas Tirith on the West. Both are fraught with danger and enemies."

"We should take the Western shore to Minas Tirith," Boromir said earnestly, turning to Aragorn. Aragorn looked troubled.

"It is not my part to choose for you," Celeborn said, "but I will help you as I may. There are some among you who can handle boats: Legolas, whose folk know the swift Forest River; and Boromir of Gondor; and Aragorn the traveller."

"And me!" Merry interjected. "My people live by the banks of the Brandywine."

"That is well," Celeborn said. "I will furnish your Company with boats. They will make your journey less toilsome for a while, but in the end you must leave them and the River, and turn West — or East."

"Thank you, my lord," said Aragorn. Tíniel glanced up; his face was relieved. The decision could be avoided for some time yet.

"For many of us, the paths we tread are already laid before our feet, though we do not see them," Galadriel said. "Tíniel of Gondor, your path is such." Tíniel looked up quickly, and Galadriel smiled at her.

"Here is all I have seen, the tidings you have awaited: you are to go South, following the River. Go forth with the Company."

Tíniel's heart sank. "Lady, the danger is too great," she argued. "The Ring _must_ not be betrayed. Do you not see this in your Mirror?"

"You will not betray the Ring," Galadriel said gently. "This I know."

Tíniel hesitated. Despite the reassurance, she didn't trust herself. "How far am I to follow the Ring?" she asked.

"That will be decided for you in time," the Lady answered. "Do you choose to follow this path?"

Tíniel shut her eyes for a moment, then turned to Frodo. "Ring-bearer," she said. "I put it to you. Do you trust me, and the word of Galadriel?"

Frodo hesitated for a second, but then nodded. "I do," he said, not sounding confident at all. "I've known you as long as most in the Fellowship. I trust you."

Tíniel smiled grimly. "So be it."

"Go now, my friends," Galadriel said. "Good night! Sleep in peace! Do not trouble your hearts overmuch with thoughts of the road tonight. Good night!"

The Company took their leave. Boromir walked beside Tíniel.

"It is how I hoped it would be," he said in a low voice. "We can go home together."

"I am afraid," she muttered back. "I never thought this would happen, Boromir."

"It will be alright," he said. "I'll take care of you. Aragorn and Legolas will too. You will see, we are like a family."

Tíniel shook her head wordlessly. It had been a long night, and her heart felt heavy. She wanted to sleep, but she knew she would find none. But she was travelling with the Ring now, she thought resolutely. She had to forget her own problems for the good of the world.

* * *

 **A long chapter for you! I owe all my inspiration to my magnificent reviewers, especially the few of you who review every single chapter. This was tricky to write and edit, so please everyone let me know what you thought! Is the Khondyë really dead? Is the prophecy still a thing? Is there a chance for Aragorn and Tíniel? Are the pirates still alive? Who in Middle-earth is Remuil? Does Legolas know everything? Will Boromir ever see his brother again? Did the chicken come before the egg? Did Harold Holt really drown?**

 **These questions and more will be answered in the coming chapters...**

 **S**


	19. The Great River

**19 — THE GREAT RIVER**

* * *

Aragorn spent the night trying not to think about Tíniel, or about the journey ahead of them, or about how the burden of leadership lay on his shoulders now. Gandalf would no longer be there to guide him. In this, he was alone.

And he felt it. Boromir would help however he could, but the Man felt it was his duty to return to Minas Tirith, so depending on where Frodo chose to go, Boromir would soon be gone. Tíniel had been someone he depended on, both in his dreams and in person, for counsel and comfort. But now he didn't know how to talk to her. At least Legolas would stay by his side, no matter where their paths led.

He couldn't sleep at all, and he was acutely aware of Tíniel on the other side of the clearing.

When the dawn was old enough to give them light, Aragorn rose and began packing his things. The rest of the Company gradually woke and followed suit. While they worked, Elves that could speak the Common Tongue came and brought them gifts of food and clothes. Every time one of them met his eyes with a sympathetic look, Aragorn felt a little worse.

They all laughed when Gimli devoured an entire cake of lembas bread and declared them better than the honey-cakes of the Beornings. Even Tíniel cracked a smile, but Aragorn couldn't.

Next the Elves unwrapped warm silken cloaks that they had made according to the size of each of the Company. They seemed to change colour according to the light; one moment they were a dusky grey, the next dark green, and the next brown.

"Are these magic?" asked Pippin in wonder, clasping his around his neck.

"I do not know what you mean by that," said one of the Elves. "It is of Elvish make, certainly. You will find them a great aid in keeping out the sight of unfriendly eyes. You are indeed high in the favour of the Lady, for she herself and her maidens wove these."

Aragorn fastened the leaf clasp at his throat. Time to go, he thought.

Haldir, returned from the Northern Fences, was their guide once more as they walked along the green paths of Lothlórien. Unseen voices above them murmured and sang, but the Fellowship went in silence, their heads down. As Haldir led them down the Southern slopes and out of Caras Galadhon, their hearts grew heavy. It was the last of the brief peace.

The hours passed as they walked, and it was nearing noon. They had gone almost ten miles by Aragorn's reckoning when, passing through an opening in the trees, they came suddenly into the clear. They could see where the Silverlode met the Anduin in the distance, and before them were three small grey boats. Elves were packing supplies into them, furnishing them with three oars apiece.

Celeborn and Galadriel stepped forward.

"We have come to bid you our last farewell," Galadriel said, "and to speed you with blessings from our land."

"I wish you a swift journey down the water," Celeborn said. "Boromir, and any that go with him seeking Minas Tirith, will do well to leave the Great River above Rauros. But do not risk becoming entangled in the Forest of Fangorn. That is a strange land, and now little known. But Boromir and Aragorn doubtless do not need this warning."

"I have heard of Fangorn," Boromir said, "but I think most of what I heard were stories told by old women to scare children to bed. Tíniel and I made our way North through Rohan, so I don't doubt we can return by a similar path."

"Then I need say no more," said Celeborn.

Galadriel now came to stand before Aragorn. "Here is the gift of Celeborn and Galadriel to the leader of your Company," she said. She handed him a sheath overlaid with traced flowers and gemstones. It was delicate and beautiful, and distinctly Elvish.

"Son of Arathorn," she said, and he met her eyes. "Is there aught else that you desire of me at our parting? For darkness will now flow between us, and it may be that we shall not meet again."

He felt the brush of her mind against his, and unbidden an image of Tíniel sprang into his head. She saw it and smiled.

"You know what I desire," he said quietly, "and it is not yours to give."

"Let your heart be lightened," she replied. "I have seen a great many things that have not yet come to pass. It may be that we shall not meet again, yet it may be that we shall. And it may be that other desirable things are possible, far hence upon roads that have no returning."

Despite himself, Aragorn felt a tiny spark of hope rekindled in his chest. "Thank you, Lady," he said.

Galadriel bowed her head, then turned to Boromir. She gave him a belt of gold, and he bowed deeply when he took it. To Merry and Pippin, she gave little silver belts with clasps wrought like flowers. To Legolas she gave a Lórien-built bow, and to Sam she gave a box of earth from her orchard. She gifted to Frodo a crystal vial of water from her fountain that was infused with some kind of Elvish spell. To Gimli, at his request, she gave three of her golden hairs. Tíniel looked at them curiously, as Galadriel gave them over.

"Never before have I gifted my hair to any, though some have asked," she said, a sparkle deep in her ancient eyes. Then she turned to Tíniel.

"I come to you last who are not last in my thoughts," she said. "For you, the smiths of Lórien have prepared this." She handed to Tíniel a medallion on a fine chain. Tíniel caught her breath as she examined it; it was a silver _haramakhi_ , the symbol that was worn by the Khondyë of a tribe.

"By the stars," Tíniel breathed, letting the medallion spin slowly and reflect the light. "How did you get this?"

"The Khandi are an ancient people, as time is measured by Men," Galadriel said, smiling softly. "So are the Elves. A thousand years ago, there was contact between us. There are some small things that we still know of your people, and this is one."

Tíniel examined the engravings. Her father's _haramakhi_ had been traced with the symbol of the Maruvikh tribe, but this one was imprinted with the white tree of Gondor, seven stars above it. "I cannot accept it," she said. "This belongs to a leader of Gondor, and I am no such thing."

"Are you not, _rómentári_?" Galadriel said. "If the prophecy speaks true, then this is yet to be seen. Wear it, and its purpose will soon become clear. You are a Khondyë now, and a Khondyë must have her _haramakhi_."

Her correct pronunciation of the Khandi words surprised Tíniel. She bowed deeply. "My Lady, you have been kind to me," she said. "Thank you."

"Do not fear what you do not know, princess," Galadriel said. "And now I ask of you a favour: if you ever come across your friend Remuil again, tell him..." she paused, and her eyes grew heavy with an ancient sadness. "Tell him that the curse died with the stones. Perhaps he will have a second chance."

At last, clad all in Elvish cloaks, they boarded their boats. Tíniel sat in one with Legolas and Gimli; Boromir steered Merry and Pippin, and Aragorn was with Frodo and Sam. The Elves thrust them out into the stream with long grey poles, and they began to drift gently down the glittering river. Tíniel turned and watched the wood, and Galadriel, slip away. The Lady sang to them as they were taken by the stream, in words that Tíniel didn't understand.

Gimli sighed behind her. "Elrond was right when he said this journey would be perilous," he sniffed. "I wouldn't have come if I'd known the danger of light and joy! I would fear nothing more, Legolas, even if I were to march straight to Mordor tonight."

"Alas for all who have left Lothlórien this day!" Legolas agreed. "Such is the way of the world, my friend; to find, and to lose."

"Alas for me, in this boat with you two weeping maidens," Tíniel muttered from the front, and she hid her grin when Gimli shoved her in the back.

* * *

They drifted down the Great River until night fell, then they docked on the West bank. While Gimli started setting a fire, Tíniel and Boromir went to collect firewood.

When they were out of earshot of the camp, Boromir glanced up at her.

"So, what happened between you and Aragorn?" he asked.

Tíniel winced. "Is it that obvious?"

"You two are usually inseparable, and now you avoid each other like one of you has a plague."

"That's it," she said, carefully pulling a splinter out of her palm. "I've caught the pox."

"Very funny."

She bent to pick up another stick. "I told him the truth," she said flatly. "I pushed him away. It's for the best that he doesn't talk to me. In fact, the longer I spend away from him, the better."

"I pity the both of you," Boromir said gently. "But you are doing an honourable thing, at great cost to yourself."

"Well, save your sympathy, because I don't care anymore," she said.

"I don't believe that for a second."

"You know I don't lie," she said. Her voice was oddly cold.

Boromir's brows creased. "Very well," he said diplomatically. "Let's forget all of it for now. Ten years from now we can look back and laugh about it all."

That made her smile. "I wonder what the world will be like in ten years' time," she said, adding another branch to her pile.

"At peace, I hope," Boromir replied, doing the same. "There will be a King in the West, and I will be his Steward. The people will be happy, better fed. The white tower of Minas Tirith will stand prouder than ever, and the glory of Men will shine for all to see."

Tíniel shook her head. "It is a beautiful future," she said. "But a dark path to take us there. Do you really think we are going into Mordor?"

Boromir hesitated. "I will not," he said slowly. "My duty is to return to Minas Tirith, oversee her defences. I've been gone too long already. Will you come with me?"

"I plan to," Tíniel said. "But I think that choice isn't really mine to make. I'm just waiting for something to happen, something that will show me which way to go." She remembered what Galadriel had said; _it will be decided for you in time_.

"If Aragorn heeds my advice," Boromir said, lifting a hefty log into his arms, "the Ring will come through Gondor first. And perhaps they can be counselled there to put the Ring to other uses."

"I agree," Tíniel said. It was a relief that Boromir understood the matter the same way she did. "Perhaps I haven't been told everything, but all I know is that the Ring is the most powerful weapon in Middle Earth. And not only are we not using it, we are on our way to _destroy_ it. It seems we are wasting a gift that could save thousands of lives."

"It's only Frodo who needs convincing," Boromir said. "The rest, even Aragorn, would follow him to Minas Tirith if he decided to go. But who could be strong enough to wield it?"

"Galadriel should have," Tíniel mused. "She could have destroyed the Enemy in the blink of an eye if she had the Ring. But it's too late for that. What about your father?"

"No," Boromir said. "He has great strength of the mind, it's true, but it shouldn't be him."

"Understood," Tíniel replied. "Who else, then?"

"What about Aragorn?" Boromir said suddenly. "He is strong, and his heart is good."

Tíniel considered it for a moment. Aragorn had the capacity to do it, she didn't doubt; his mind was strong enough to wear the Ring. But his heart was too weak. He was prejudiced against the power of the Ring, and it would be in danger if it was in his possession.

"Not him," she began saying, but she was interrupted by Gimli calling from the camp.

"Boromir! Tíniel! Where is my firewood?"

"We should go," he said. They picked their way through the brush back to the camp together.

* * *

The next few days passed similarly. They woke at first light and were soon on the River. Their pace was unhurried, but they never stopped until night was well and truly upon them. As they travelled, Tíniel thought of returning to Minas Tirith. She missed Faramir dearly, and Anita as well. She missed talking to her friends in the guard, missed their sparring sessions. She wondered if Ingold had learned to live with one arm.

And she imagined the faceless person who would wield the Ring in battle. If Gandalf had lived, it would have been him, she thought. But he was dead, so who? Not Denethor. Not any of the lords of Gondor, nor of Rohan. Certainly not Aragorn. She doubted that she herself would be powerful enough to do it, but if there was no other choice… All they needed was someone worthy and willing, to free the land of the Enemy's shadow. A world of peace would emerge.

But was such a future even possible? The continuous hiding, the cowering in the shadows was beginning to wear on Tíniel's mind. She felt a strange sickness to her core. She hadn't been lying when she'd told Boromir that being away from Aragorn made her feel better. Every time she looked at him, her stomach rolled. Every time she caught a glimpse of his troubled eyes, she felt she was going to throw up. She wasn't sure why, but it convinced her that she'd made the right choice. These were the thoughts that filled her head during the long, quiet days on the River.

One day, she offered to switch with Legolas in guiding the boat.

"I have some seamanship," she said, "and I don't suppose boating on a river would be too different."

"Wonders never cease," said Gimli, shaking his head. "First the princess can fight, now she can handle boats. I was not aware that Khand was so full of water."

"It isn't," she said wryly. "But I had a go at pirating some years ago."

"Truly I would like to hear the story of your life sometime," Legolas said. "And ever I wish to hear tales of the Sea. But for now, the helm is yours."

Tíniel laughed, trying to think of what Harûk would say if he saw her steering a Dwarf and an Elf down a river. "Perhaps one day I shall tell you," she said.

The river flowed swiftly, and it was a simple task to keep the boat centred. It was a welcome distraction from everything to have the rudder in her hands, trembling slightly. Being on the water again brought back memories of the ocean. It had been a good few months; Tíniel wondered what would have become of her if they'd never been imprisoned by the soldiers of Gondor. At least Remuil had been able to get the crew out.

"Legolas," she said suddenly, breaking the calming sound of running water. "May I ask you something?"

Legolas caught the seriousness in her tone and turned slightly in his seat so he was facing her. "You may."

"There was an Elf that I met, in the City of Corsairs. I didn't know at the time that he was an Elf. I was wondering... if you might know who he was."

Legolas frowned. "I cannot guess what an Elf might be doing in that part of the world," he said, "and nor can I name every Elf that has ever walked Middle-earth. Can you describe his appearance?"

"He was tall," Tíniel said. "Probably the same height as you. He had blue eyes, white skin, and dark hair that he always pulled back. He seemed old, older than other Elves I have met. He loved all kinds of music, and had a beautiful voice. He was always singing strange songs. Oh – and the palms of both his hands were red and scarred, as though they had been burned."

Legolas frowned. "This could be any of a number of Elves, I am afraid," he said. "Though it is strange that he strayed so far South, so far from his own people. Perhaps he does not wish to be found. But I am sorry I cannot be of better help."

She talked little the rest of the day, merely listening to the chatter of Gimli and Legolas before her. It was easy going, and disturbances in the water were rare, but as darkness fell that evening, the river ahead grew louder. The three boats drew close together in the middle of the stream, and their speed increased.

Legolas saw it first and sat up straighter in his seat. "What is ahead?" he said, a note of trepidation in his usually unreadable voice.

"Boromir…" Tíniel called slowly, tightening her grip on the oar.

"Hoy, Aragorn!" Boromir called, realising the danger at the same time as her. "We can't take these rapids at night, we'll be lost!"

Aragorn peered ahead in the dim light and his eyes widened. "Back! Get back!" he cried. Tíniel drove her paddle into the water, trying with all her might to turn the boat around.

"Legolas, Gimli, help me! Quickly!" she shouted. They each took an oar from the bottom of the boat and began paddling desperately.

But at that moment, arrows began whizzing around them, coming from the Eastern shore.

" _Yrch!_ " Legolas cried.

"Orcs!" Gimli yelled at the same time. One of the arrows glanced off Tíniel's leather gauntlet, and she jerked her arm back.

"Come on!" she cried out, and resumed her paddling even harder. Her muscles screamed with the effort, but she ground her teeth and continued. In the dark, she couldn't be sure that they were moving at all, but slowly the swirl of the water grew less. They were out of reach of the jagged rocks.

Labouring still, they finally alighted on the Western bank. Tíniel jumped down from the boat, breathing hard, and with the help of Legolas she hauled it onto the beach. Then Legolas leapt up onto a rock and, stringing his bow, peered across the River, searching for a target. Tíniel turned to the others.

"Is anyone hurt?" she asked. "Did anyone get hit?"

"An arrow passed through my hood," Aragorn replied. "But otherwise we're fine. You?"

"I was lucky," she said, looking down at the scratch the arrow had left on her wrist guard.

Aragorn hesitated, almost as though he was going to say something else, but he was stopped by Legolas' exclamation.

" _Elbereth_!" the Elf sighed, looking upward. Tíniel followed his eyeline, and her heart turned cold. The stars were suddenly covered by a huge shadow, and the sight of it struck terror into the marrow of her bones. She shrank away, but even as she did Legolas stood up straight and loosed his arrow. The huge beast gave a terrible, earth-shaking shriek and plummeted out of the sky. It came crashing down on the other side of the River. Everything went eerily quiet.

"Good shot," Tíniel said shakily.

Legolas jumped down from the rock. "But who can say what it hit?"

"I can," Frodo muttered darkly.

"What was it?" Boromir asked curiously, leaning toward Frodo.

"I think…" the Hobbit shook his head. "No, I won't say. Whatever it was, it's gone now."

That night was warm and filled with the sounds of the river. Nothing more was heard from the Eastern bank, but the Fellowship could not rest. Tíniel sat with her knees hugged to her chest and her hood up, watching the water. Boromir came to sit beside her.

"We are far enough South now," he said quietly. "We ought to strike South-West to the Entwash, and cross into Gondor."

"Perhaps," she replied. "But I heard you and Aragorn arguing before."

Boromir sighed. "He means to carry the boats around the rapids, then take the water as far as Amon Hen. I said I would go with him, in the end. He'll need my help for as long as I can stay. But I need to go home, and I had truly hoped…" he looked down and shook his head. "Well. I'll go alone if I don't have companions."

"The path is not decided yet," she said consolingly. "You may have us with you yet. And I will go with you, if I have any say in it. I'm not in any hurry to see your back again."

"Nor I yours," he said, smiling a little. "But Amon Hen is as far as I'll go." He stood up, looked around, then sat back down suddenly.

Tíniel frowned. "Are you alright?"

"I don't know," he said, agitated. "I've been growing restless these past few days. I can't tell why."

"I've been feeling something similar," she said. "I sleep less than usual, and I cannot be still. I feel ill in my stomach. It must be the boats."

"Maybe," Boromir replied. "Or maybe it's the time of decisions coming closer."

* * *

The next day a thick fog crept in with the dawn. It was so heavy that Tíniel couldn't see the River just a few yards away. Everything felt muffled, like the land was holding its breath. Boromir shook his head as he rolled his blanket.

"This won't be easy, Aragorn," he said. "Even if we were all Men, it'd be hard going."

"We have little choice," Aragorn replied grimly.

"We'll get it done!" said Gimli. "Men may tire on a rough road, but a Dwarf will continue, even if he carries twice his weight! Fear not, Master Boromir, we'll have these boats around the rapids in no time!"

Boromir exchanged an amused glance with Aragorn, then they hefted the boats onto their shoulders. It was hard going, but the boats were far less heavy than they'd expected. Merry and Pippin could have carried one across flat ground, but the path they followed was winding, uneven and rocky, pitted with hidden holes and stagnant puddles. And the fog cloaked everything in a viscous white.

Boromir and Aragorn ended up carrying the boats one by one, while Tíniel and the others brought along the baggage. It was difficult to tell the time through the mist, but dusk was beginning to fall by the time the trips were done and everything moved.

"Well, here we are," Boromir said as they set down the last boat, "and here we should sleep. I know you meant to pass the gates of Argonath by night, Aragorn, but we're all too tired. Except our sturdy Dwarf, surely."

Tíniel looked to Gimli, but he didn't answer; he was dozing where he sat.

"Very well," Aragorn said reluctantly. "We'll have to take the risk of travelling by day again. We will keep watch in twos tonight."

"I can watch first," Tíniel offered.

"I'll watch with her," Merry piped up, and grinned at her. "Anything to get some uninterrupted sleep,' he said.

The Company settled down, drawing their cloaks close around them, though the night was not cold. Winter had passed them by while they were in Lothlórien.

Tíniel and Merry sat together at the water's edge, where they had a good view in all directions. Tíniel had her sword drawn and resting across her lap.

"Do most people in Khand speak the Common Tongue?" Merry asked suddenly.

"Hush, your voice will carry to the Eastern bank," Tíniel warned. "And no, they don't. I only learned when I came West. Why do you ask?"

"You speak with a strange accent is all," Merry replied. "I suppose Boromir taught you?"

"Some words, yes."

"You say similar things sometimes."

Tíniel smiled. "Like what?"

"Like 'by the stars.' I heard you say that to Gimli the other day, and Boromir says it all the time."

"That's not Boromir's turn of phrase," she said. "It is something everyone in Minas Tirith says. Have you ever seen the city?"

"Never," he said. "This is much, much further from home than I'd ever dreamed I'd get. The world really is a marvel; they're not going to believe a thing that Pip and I tell them when we get back."

Tíniel's smile faded. _When we get back_. He was so innocent. "You would like Minas Tirith," she said. "It is very grand. There are layers upon layers of shining white buildings, and up the top, a white tower that looks as though it's made of diamond."

"It sounds marvellous," Merry said, "but I think I'd prefer to go home. There's an attraction to all the pomp and grandeur of all these Man-made places, but after everything I've seen… well, a bit of familiarity would be nice."

"I know the feeling," she said despondently. "When everything is so different, so amazing that you almost stop being surprised and you just long for home instead."

"That's exactly right," Merry replied. "But I suppose it's unlikely that we're headed back to the Shire for a long while yet. And Minas Tirith is a good deal better to look forward to than Mordor."

They sat in companionable silence for a while. The fog was slowly beginning to lift, and Tíniel could soon see one or two of the stars peeking through. But her eyes were brought back down by the sound of footsteps approaching. It was Aragorn.

"I'll take your watch, Merry," he said. "We've a big day of travel ahead of us, so you'll need your rest."

"What about _your_ rest?" Merry asked, scrambling to his feet.

"I'll find little of it anyway," Aragorn replied. He sat in Merry's place, and the Hobbit went away to sleep.

Tíniel looked resolutely at the river, ignoring the Man beside her. He sighed heavily. His presence put her on edge; her jaw clenched, and her hands balled into fists.

"Tíniel?"

She didn't answer, didn't meet his eyes. She couldn't stand to be near him, and she fought the urge to simply run away.

"Won't you look at me?" he asked, a note of uncertainty in his voice.

She set her jaw and looked up. His eyes were apprehensive.

"You don't talk to me anymore," he said.

She shrugged. "We're talking now."

He shook his head doggedly. "That isn't what I meant."

Again, she was silent. He took a deep breath and spoke again.

"I'm going to tell you what I know," he said. "I know that you've been running from me since that night in Lothlórien."

Tíniel looked back down at her hands and tried not to scoff at his words.

"And I know that when I kissed you that night, you didn't pull away."

He fell quiet at last, and for a moment the only sound was the rapids that they had passed that day. Then Tíniel shook her head.

"I tried to tell you," she said impassively. "You ought to stay away from me."

"What has made you this way? You haven't been yourself for days—"

"I think I can be the judge of that," she replied coldly, "and right now I am thinking more clearly, more like _myself_ , than I have in a long while. Here is what _I_ know: that night in Lórien was a mistake. The kiss was a mistake, and I didn't pull away because _then_ I wasn't myself. For the love of the gods, leave it in the past where it belongs."

Aragorn sat back, his face suddenly drawn and stiff. "I am sorry if I hurt you," he said quietly.

"You didn't hurt me, but you made a fool of yourself," she said harshly.

He drew in a deep breath. "I don't blame you for your words," he said carefully, as though he was trying not to shout. "This journey has taken its toll on us all."

Tíniel shrugged. "Say whatever you wish to justify the facts to yourself, but accept them. There is a war going on."

He studied her for a moment. She saw him try to hide the hurt in his grey eyes, but she couldn't quite bring herself to really care.

"I can watch alone if you would like," he said.

She shrugged again. "As you wish," she said, and got to her feet to go back to the others.

As she stepped quietly through the sleeping Company, Legolas sat up.

"Tíniel," came his whisper.

"What is it?" she replied, pausing.

"You told me you did not despise him," the Elf said. Knowing him better now, Tíniel could hear a hint of accusation in his voice.

"How much did you overhear?" she asked.

"All," he replied.

She squared her jaw. "You should understand," she said sourly. "After all, it was you who told me that the emotions of mortals are changeable and hard to gauge."

She laid herself down as far away from Aragorn and Legolas as she could go, and clutched her cloak close to her to ward off the chill.

* * *

 **As Boromir says, the time of decisions grows near. Please review. The proverbial is about to hit the fan.**

 **S**


	20. The Breaking of the Fellowship

**20 — THE BREAKING OF THE FELLOWSHIP**

* * *

The next day dawned unnoticeably, cloaked by the low hanging blue-grey clouds. The fog was gone, but the rain started as soon as they climbed back into the boats and set off downstream.

It increased steadily until it was pouring down in sheets. Thunder cracked overhead, and occasionally a bolt of lightning would illuminate the tempestuous surface of the usually calm river. Tíniel had her hood pulled up, but after a while even the hardy Elvish material of her cloak was soaked through. The Elves had packed canvas covers into the boats, and they held them up over their heads to keep the rain from puddling and sinking the boats. They drifted on sombrely.

Through the torrents of rain, the riverbanks could be seen to be steadily increasing in height, until they became sheer cliffs that walled them in on each side. The river grew narrower as well, so the current pushed them on faster and faster. Tíniel was losing control of the boat, so she handed the paddle off to Legolas.

"You are stronger than I am," she said to him as they switched places. "But beware the current, it's growing faster. Keep the boat as far away from the others as you can."

Legolas nodded and took the rudder, his arms tensing at the effort of keeping the boat straight. His keen eyes scanned the river ahead of them through the rain.

"What is ahead?" he called out after a while, his voice barely audible through the downpour. Tíniel brushed the water out of her eyes and surveyed the landscape before them. She could see two huge, ominous shadows rising up on either side of the river.

Gimli shifted in his seat and loosened his axe. "What in the world…"

Their boats were speeding along now, with no hope of stopping or turning around. But at that moment, the rain began to lessen, and Tíniel could make out the details of the enormous shadows. She caught her breath.

"The Argonath!" Aragorn called across the water. "Behold, the Pillars of the Kings!"

They were giants; vast, grey, unmoving figures, silent and threatening. They were both shaped in the form of Men, both dressed in armour for war, and both staring coldly Northward. The left hand of each one was raised, palm outward in a warning, and in the right hand they held axes. On their heads were crumbled crowns.

"Wardens of a long-vanished kingdom," Legolas murmured, his face upturned in reverence. Tíniel was awestruck by the long-dead kings. She felt as though their stony eyes could see straight into her heart, and she bowed her head.

The others were doing the same - all except Aragorn, who stood tall and proud. "Isildur," he breathed to himself. "Anárion. In your shadow, I have nothing to fear."

The boats shot through the chasm between the great pillars at great speed and emerged from the shadows into the calm, still waters on the other side. The Anduin widened suddenly until it was more of a lake than a river. In the middle of the water, a sheer, rocky mountain rose into the sky. At last, the rain stopped, and Tíniel lowered her hood.

"What is that noise of thunder in the distance?" she asked Legolas.

"It is the falls of Rauros that you hear calling," he replied. Then he pointed to the mountain island. "There is Tol Brandir. It is said that no man or beast has ever set foot upon it. And there," he said, pointing to the West bank, "is Amon Hen."

* * *

The sun was growing round and red by the time Aragorn led them onto the Western bank. Not a word was spoken as they pulled the boats up onto the shore. Gimli set a fire, and the Fellowship sat around it sombrely. They could go no further without choosing between East or West; it was now that they would separate or continue together, break or remain whole. The time of choice was upon them.

Tíniel felt more nauseous than ever, and she didn't look up or speak to anyone as they set up camp. She was growing afraid; it wasn't only the sick feeling now, but a sense of doom that she could feel all around her. The air was thick with it. It sat upon her shoulders and weighed down her every movement. It made her nervous. She knew from experience that nothing good could ever follow that feeling.

That night her sleep was broken, littered with nightmares and scraps of doom dreams. She grew more and more uneasy until she could no longer bear staying still. Something was coming, she was sure of it. In the early hours, she got up and went over to Frodo, whose turn it was to watch.

"Why are you awake?" he asked her in a whisper. "You don't have a watch tonight."

"I know," she said quietly. "But I think there is something out there. Draw your sword."

The hobbit got to his feet hurriedly. "Enemies?" he asked.

"Perhaps. Draw your sword, and we shall see."

He drew Sting from its scabbard and caught his breath when he saw it glowing dimly blue.

"As I thought," Tíniel murmured. "But the light is faint. They could be on the other side of the river, but in any case they are far enough that we won't need to worry about them tonight."

"Should we wake the others?" Frodo asked anxiously.

"Let them rest," she said. "They will need it. But we should go carefully tomorrow. I will watch with you till the sunrise."

* * *

The morning dawned like fire and smoke; great black bars of cloud lay low in the Eastern sky, and the rising sun lit them from below with a murky red. But soon the ominous light was dispelled, and it rose into a clear sky, tipping the summit of Tol Brandir with gold.

The Company ate together, each conscious that it could very well be the last time they did so. The hobbits chattered gaily as usual, but Tíniel could tell their smiles were forced. They too were worried about the path ahead. She refused her food; her stomach was rolling, and she wasn't sure she could swallow anything. When everything was cleared away, Aragorn called them all together.

"Well," he said. He tried to smile, but the result was more of a grimace. "West or East. We have come as far as we can come, but now it is time to decide."

There was a long silence, in which nobody moved or made a sound. Then Tíniel spoke, without looking up.

"There are orcs nearby, and probably coming closer," she said dully. "We cannot stay here long."

Another silence stretched, and Tíniel sunk a little deeper into the miserable nauseousness. Gimli stared grimly at his axe; Merry and Pippin scuffed their shoes; Legolas sat perfectly still, his expression unreadable. Frodo sat with his head down, and Sam watched his master with great concern. Boromir watched him too.

"Very well then," Aragorn said at last, breaking the spell. "Frodo, the burden is laid upon you. You are the Ring Bearer, and we will follow you wherever you see fit to take the Ring. If Gandalf were here —" he broke off and shook his head. "But he is not. The choice is yours, and yours alone."

"I know that we must hurry," Frodo said despairingly, "but I cannot choose, Aragorn. Will you give me time alone, to think it over?"

Aragorn looked worried at the prospect of a delay, but his voice was kind. "You have an hour. But don't go too far, or anywhere you won't be able to hear our calls."

Frodo nodded, and then he got up and walked away. Sam sat muttering to himself and looking back in the direction that Frodo had disappeared.

Boromir came over and crouched in front of Tíniel.

"Are you well?" he asked concernedly. "You look ill."

She shrugged. "I don't know," she replied. "I have felt some kind of sickness for days now, growing. I hoped it would pass, but today I am worse."

He put his hand to her forehead and her cheeks. "You have no fever," he said.

She shook her head. "It isn't that kind of sickness," she said. She looked sideways at him, and her eyes were haunted. "Boromir, I —" her voice broke and she drew in a breath to settle herself. "I have the feeling."

He frowned. "The feeling?"

"The _feeling._ The sense of doom. Something is coming, something is going to happen, and I can feel it."

His eyes widened. "Do you mean… the prophecy?"

She didn't reply, but she held his gaze. He took her hand in his and put his other to her cheek.

"Well then," he said gently. "If the prophecy has come knocking at last, you needn't be afraid. I am here with you, little sister. Do you trust me?"

"Always."

"Then trust me. I am with you, and I will take care of you as I have always done. The quest is weighing on us all, but soon we'll be back in Gondor, no matter Frodo's choice."

Tíniel let out a breath she didn't realise she'd been holding and nodded.

"Now rest," he said. "Just a few more minutes, and we will be on our way home."

He squeezed her hand and she smiled faintly. Then she put her head on her knees and closed her eyes. Just a few more minutes, she thought. Just a few more minutes…

* * *

She must have slept, because when she next looked up, the sun was a little higher in the sky and the others were talking. She shook her head, trying to clear it. She felt a little better in the sunlight, but the feeling of impending doom still hung over her head.

"Let us call Frodo back," Legolas was saying. "If he still has not made his decision, we might put it to a vote. I would choose Minas Tirith, but if he does not, I will follow him to Mordor."

"As would I," Gimli rumbled in agreement. "It would be faithless to leave him now."

She glanced over at Aragorn; he wasn't listening, lost in his thoughts.

"There's only one choice for Mr Frodo, clear as day," Sam said. "What's the use of Minas Tirith to him? Meaning no offense to the Men here, of course. But he knows he's got to find the Cracks of Doom if he can. He is going to choose the path East, to Mordor. The only thing stopping him from saying as much is that he's _afraid_. But he'll want to go East. And he'll try to go alone, mark my words."

"Well we ought to stop him then!" Pippin exclaimed. "I for one certainly won't let him go off to Mordor by himself!"

"Where is Boromir?" Tíniel interrupted suddenly. "He was beside me before."

"He's been gone a while," Merry answered her. "He slipped away quite suddenly, none of us noticed when he left."

She stood up and scanned the woods around, suddenly worried. "Boromir?" she called. 'Boromir!'

Aragorn half stood, looking up at her with concern, but at that moment Boromir stepped back into the clearing. He said nothing, but went and sat down, his eyes disturbed and fixed on the ground.

"Where have you been, Boromir?" Aragorn asked him warily. "Did you see Frodo?"

Boromir hesitated for a second. "Yes and no," he said slowly. "I followed him. I spoke to him and urged him to come to Minas Tirith. Then I… grew angry, and he vanished. I have never seen such a thing in my life. I think he must have put on the Ring."

"And is that all you have to say?" Aragorn asked, giving him a hard look.

"Yes," Boromir replied, barely audibly. Tíniel stared at him. Something was very wrong. What had he done?

"This is bad!" Sam cried, jumping up. "I don't know what you've been up to, Boromir, but Mr Frodo didn't ought to have put on the Ring."

"But where is he?" Pippin spoke up anxiously. "He's been away ages now!"

"We have to find him!" Sam shouted. "At once! Come on!"

"Wait!" Aragorn called, but he was too late. Some kind of mad panic seemed to take hold of the Company, and everyone ran off into the woods calling Frodo's name.

"Valar help me," Aragorn muttered, then turned and ran away himself, shouting over his shoulder: "Tíniel, stay there!"

Then she was alone, and everything was startlingly quiet. The nausea was subsiding, and for once her head was clear.

Think, she told herself. Be smart. Where would Frodo go? Boromir wasn't lying, that wasn't his way. But he hadn't told all of the truth. Frodo must have been afraid of him if he had put on the Ring and disappeared. But where would a frightened hobbit run away to? He couldn't get far. All the packs and supplies were here at the camp.

Then suddenly it was clear. Sam had said that Frodo meant to go East, and that he was afraid to make the decision. But Boromir had frightened him somehow, and the decision had been made for him. Frodo would come back to the camp. He would take one of the boats, cross the Anduin and try to go to Mordor alone.

She sat back down to wait, certain that she would catch Frodo before he left. But the minutes passed, and he did not come. Tíniel was becoming decreasingly sure of herself, when Sam hurtled back into the clearing. He didn't see her sitting wrapped in her cloak but sprinted headlong toward the boats. Tíniel caught her breath.

One of the boats was sliding into the river of its own accord, pushed by an invisible being.

"Frodo," she breathed. "The Ring…"

With a strangled cry, Sam took a flying leap for the boat, but missed and landed with an almighty splash in the water. But Frodo, still unseen, pulled him back up and into the boat, and Tíniel saw Sam appear to hug the thin air.

She leapt to her feet and ran to the edge of the water.

"Frodo, wait!" she cried. At last, Frodo pulled off the Ring and appeared next to Sam, who looked like a half-drowned rat. They were only a few feet away from her. "Don't go East," she said fervently. "Not yet. Come to Minas Tirith with us!"

Frodo shook his head firmly. "The madness will take you too," he said, his little voice trembling. "This is the only choice, Tíniel! I won't risk the lives of the others, not anymore!"

The boat was beginning to drift slowly downstream, and she paced to keep level with it. "It is a fool's choice, Frodo! Do you want to _give_ the Ring to the Enemy? Because if you go East now with nobody but Sam by your side, few supplies, no guide, that's what you'll be doing. Come to Minas Tirith instead. Gather your strength, learn of Sauron's movements before you go! The Fellowship will follow you gladly!"

Frodo shook his head. "The decision has been made," he said. He wanted the conversation over.

But Tíniel's mouth hardened into a straight line. He wasn't listening to her, and he was risking the future of the _world_ , the future of thousands upon thousands of people.

"Frodo, come back now," she commanded severely, no longer trying to reason. "This matter is beyond your understanding. Turn the boat!"

"I will not!" he returned desperately, and took a paddle from the bottom of the boat to propel them further away from the shore.

At that moment, Tíniel heard the deep, throbbing call of Boromir's horn. She turned back and listened carefully. She could hear shouts in the distance, and faintly, the clash of steel. He needed her help. For a moment she hesitated; the horn blew again, vibrating the leaves of the trees, and she drew in a sharp breath. She had to go. But she couldn't let the Ring escape her just like that. She turned back to the hobbits.

"Do you think I could not catch you?" she said harshly. "Come back, Frodo! The Ring does not belong to you, but to one who can wield it! Come back, or I shall be forced to bring you back!"

"It is making you sick," Frodo called miserably, paddling faster. "Get back, Tíniel! I'm going!"

They were slowing her down, making her angry, and she drew her sword. "Fool!" she shouted, wading into the river. "You fool! You don't know what you do!"

Frodo's reply was drowned out by a third blast from Boromir's horn which was suddenly cut short. Tíniel turned to look at the woods, then she turned back to the river. She looked down at her feet, knee deep in water. She looked at her right hand, tightly gripping the hilt of her sword. And suddenly, everything became horribly, horribly clear.

She looked back up at Frodo, wide-eyed. He brandished the paddle, knuckles white, ready for her attack, but she shook her head.

"I'm sorry," she breathed. Then she shouted. "Go, and gods go with you! Go, my friends!" Frodo nodded, his face grim, but she didn't see it. She was already sprinting back into the woods.

She ran faster than she ever had in her life. Branches whipped her arms and face as she passed, but she didn't care; she tripped and fell, but was up again just as quickly and running on. She was going to be too late. She was going to be too late, but she _couldn't_ be. She wouldn't allow it. She could still make it. It wasn't over yet.

The shouts grew louder up ahead, and she flew through the trees, still gripping her sword. At last she burst into a clearing and skidded to a stop, scanning the area for enemies. There were none; the shouting had stopped, and the steel rang no more. Gimli turned to face her, his axe dripping black blood and gristle, his face ashen.

"Boromir!" she choked out through her gasping breath. "Where is Boromir? Where is my brother?"

Gimli opened his mouth as if to speak but thought better of it and simply stepped to the side. Tíniel's heart stopped and she looked behind him.

Legolas was standing there, his bow clutched in his hand and his quiver empty. His head was bowed. Aragorn was crouched by a tree. Boromir was sitting with his back against it. His sword was broken beside him, and in his chest were four thick-shafted, black-feathered arrows.

At that moment, Tíniel could only hear her heartbeat, thunderous in her ears. In a dreamlike state, she made her way over to Boromir and kneeled next to him.

"Aragorn," she heard him say through the roaring in her head. "I have failed."

Aragorn shook his head. "No, my friend," he said, his voice unsteady. "You have conquered. Few have gained such a victory."

Aragorn glanced sideways at Tíniel. He leaned forward and kissed Boromir on the forehead. "Goodbye, Boromir," he said. Then he got to his feet, dashed the tears from his eyes, and left them alone.

"Boromir," Tíniel breathed, moving closer to him. His eyes found hers and he reached out to find her hand. She gripped it tightly, trying not to hear his rattling breaths or see the blood leaking from the jagged holes torn in him by the arrows. "What have I done?" she mumbled. "Boromir, what have I done to you? What have I done?"

"Little sister," he rasped. "This… this is not your doing."

Reality began setting in. This was the prophecy. It was inevitable now. He was going to… she couldn't think it. She began to shake uncontrollably. "You don't understand," she whispered. "It happened. The prophecy, at last. _Next for gold_ …" she couldn't continue, and she began to cry.

Realisation dawned on his blood-flecked face. "Then it is me, dearest to your heart," he murmured. "It is an honour."

"I heard the horn," she choked out. "I heard you call for my help, but I chose the Ring over you. I have betrayed you, I have betrayed the dearest to my heart, and I deserve —" she was wracked by sobs. "I deserve the worst kind of death, and I —"

"Hush," he whispered. His breath rattled in his chest. The arrows rose and fell with it. "I tried to take it too." He gripped her hand tighter. "I tried to take the Ring from Frodo. I have paid. Here is my payment."

Tíniel's heart felt as though a knife had been put through it. "Please don't say that," she pleaded, and turned to Aragorn, who was looking on bitterly. "You can save him," she said. "You can heal him!"

Boromir coughed, and a ribbon of dark red blood slid from the corner of his mouth. "Not this time," he said, his voice laboured.

"If he will not, I will." She touched one of the arrows with feather-light fingers. She knew she couldn't pull it out. It was too close to his heart.

"It's over," he rasped. "It's over, so stop trying."

She shook her head, tears tracking down her cheeks. "It will never be over," she said miserably. "I will live this again and again, every day, every time I close my eyes."

Boromir drew in a shallow, unsteady breath. "Now listen to me. Listen to me. Go back to Minas Tirith. She is yours to defend now. Tell Faramir —" he coughed again. "Tell him I died with honour. And tell Ingold that — that — no. Tell him nothing. He knows. He knows."

His voice got weaker and weaker as he spoke. Tíniel pushed his hair out of his eyes with her shaking hand. "Please," she said. "You can tell them yourself. I don't want to live on without you."

He tried to brush away her tears, but he was too weak. "I love you, little sister," he rasped. His eyes drifted shut wearily. "I have loved you, truly, and my life was better for it."

"Please," she breathed, shaking her head desperately. "Please, don't. I cannot be responsible for this. Boromir!" Her voice rose in volume, wild and frantic. "Boromir, I cannot be the one who killed you! I will not! Please, stay with me! Boromir!"

His eyes fluttered open again, and they found hers. "Tíniel," he began.

"I am here," she said, clutching his hand in hers.

He coughed again, and more blood spurted out. "I forgive you," he breathed. "I forgive you."

"No," she said. "Boromir, stay with me."

He didn't reply.

"Boromir. Brother, answer me," she breathed urgently. "Boromir!"

The hand gripping hers suddenly relaxed, and a rasping breath left his lips. His chest didn't rise again.

"What have I done?" she whispered. Then she was clinging to him, sobbing, crying uncontrollably, suddenly faced by the irreversible horror of her betrayal. All because she had delayed for a moment. All because of one little choice.

And so Boromir was dead. _Next for gold_. Traitor, a voice screamed in her head. Traitor. Traitor.

 _Khaviga._


	21. Gods and Wrens

**21 — FAREWELLS**

* * *

Tears spilled from Aragorn's eyes as he watched his friend die. When it was over, he pulled Tíniel away from the body. She was crying in her own language, trying to push him away and cling to the dead man. But in her grief she was weak, and at last she gave in and pressed her face into his chest, sobbing.

"It's alright," he whispered. "All will be — all will be well." He couldn't stop his gaze drifting toward the corpse. Boromir looked smaller in death. The tears escaped from his eyes, and he squeezed them shut and held Tíniel tighter.

Everything had gone wrong. He had destroyed the Fellowship. The Ring was missing with Frodo. Merry and Pippin were going to be killed or tortured. Boromir lay dead — _dead_ — before him. All he wanted to do now was crumple to the ground and weep. But there were things to be done. No rest for him.

"We need to go after the hobbits," he said unevenly. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Legolas, keep looking for Frodo. He must not be found by —"

He was cut off by Tíniel, who pushed herself away from him to stand alone. Her eyes were hollow, and she seemed dazed.

" _Dom u khajatch Frodo,_ " she muttered.

Aragorn exchanged a glance with the others.

" _Khajatch,_ " she repeated. " _Dom u khajatch Frodo habik takh._ "

"We cannot understand you, princess," Gimli told her gently.

She looked at him bewilderedly. "Gone. Gone with the Ring. Frodo and Sam went East alone."

"Then we must go after them," Legolas said urgently. "We cannot leave them at the mercy of the Enemy without protection. They cannot have travelled far, we shall catch them with ease —"

"But you will not go," Tíniel cut him off. She seemed to be regaining control of herself.

"She's right," Aragorn said softly. "The Ring has wreaked enough havoc among us already. Let them go."

Legolas didn't look happy, and his jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. "Then what is to be done with Boromir? I would not leave him here among the corpses of his enemies."

"We could build him a cairn," Gimli put in gruffly.

"It would take too long," Aragorn said, shaking his head. "A boat. We will make him a funeral boat instead."

Gimli used his axe to cut a number of strong branches from the trees around them. They bound them together and lashed them with bowstrings to make a sort of bier. As he worked, Aragorn saw Tíniel pull the arrows out of Boromir's chest with shaking hands. Then, together, they rolled Boromir onto the bier and carried him on their shoulders down to the riverbank.

They placed him in one of the remaining boats. Aragorn took Boromir's grey Elven cloak and folded it beneath his head to make a pillow. Legolas gathered all the swords of the orcs that Boromir had killed before he fell and piled them in the foot of the boat. Gimli gently folded Boromir's hands around the hilt of his broken great sword and placed the shards in his lap. And Tíniel put the pieces of his horn, cloven in two, by his side.

Aragorn reached to push Boromir's eyes shut, but Tíniel pulled his arm back.

"Please don't," she whispered, her calm façade cracking for just a moment.

"I'm sorry," he replied tentatively. "I just thought… if he looked as though he were sleeping…"

"Aragorn," she said, once again emotionless. "He is not sleeping. He is dead."

He nodded, and she bent down and gently wiped the blood from his face with the sleeve of her tunic.

"I wish we could have given him a proper funeral," Aragorn said quietly when they had at last pushed the boat into the shallows. The current tugged gently at it, eager to pull it away.

"He would understand," Legolas said, his eyes on Boromir's white face and his stony grey eyes that reflected the sky. "He would ask no more than this."

Tíniel looked down at the dead man too. "May I sing?" she asked quietly.

Aragorn remembered the night in Lothlórien when he'd heard the strange song for the first time. She'd been singing for her father. Now she'd sing again.

"Of course," was all he said.

She stepped forward, and the others seemed to melt away. It was only her and Boromir, and the words in her mouth that he would never hear.

"Weeks ago you told me I had the right to mourn my family," she said. Her voice was rough, and now she didn't mask the emotion in it. "And now your spilt blood binds us. Now you are my brother, and I must sing for you."

Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli all bowed their heads as she began softly singing, the melody haunting and foreign and desperately sad. The words were Khandi, but soon she changed them to Westron.

" _Man of my blood, journey on,_

 _May the gods carry you gently._

 _Go quickly to the lands where blood does not spill_

 _Go quickly to the Fire and find peace."_

As the last words left her lips, she took one of her knives and, with a shaking hand, drew it across her palm. It made a clean cut through the skin. She made a fist and held it over Boromir's body. Her blood dripped down like slow drops of rain, falling on his face, his chest, his hands, his legs, and at last his feet. Then Tíniel pressed the fist to her opposite shoulder.

" _Khuma_ ," she whispered.

Each of them knew that they had to leave, that the chances of the Halflings staying alive decreased with each moment they delayed, but nonetheless not one of them moved until Boromir's boat was at last out of sight.

"Boromir has gone his way, and now we must go ours," Aragorn said grimly, turning away from the river. "Get the packs from the camp. We go after the hobbits. The orcs have a lead, but they are many and we are only four, so we will be faster."

"Three," Tíniel said.

"What?"

"You are only three. I am not going."

A range of emotions flickered over Aragorn's face before he could stop them. "I know you don't wish to be near me," he said quietly. "I know you hate me, and I know you have just lost Boromir, but I will not allow you to wander these orc-infested lands alone. I will _not_."

Tíniel stared at him for a moment, her brow creased. She looked down at her hands, then she turned to Legolas and Gimli.

"Would you let us speak for a time?" she asked quietly.

Legolas nodded, his lips pursed. "Make haste," he said. "We are losing time."

Aragorn watched as the two turned and walked back into the trees, leaving him alone with Tíniel at the water's edge. There was a long silence, and he willed himself not to break it. He didn't know if he could take anything she had to tell him. But he had to know.

"What is it?" he asked tersely.

Tíniel bit her lip. She seemed anguished. "Aragorn," she began. "I am… I am so sorry. Everything I have done has turned bad."

Despite himself, Aragorn wanted to reach out and comfort her. "You aren't at fault here," he said instead.

"I am," she said heavily, "but I do not speak only of Boromir's — of his death. I mean, I am sorry for the things I have said to you."

"What things?"

"I told you to stay away from me. I told you I felt nothing for you, that our friendship meant nothing."

It felt like she was twisting a knife embedded in his chest when she said that. He merely nodded curtly to show that he'd heard.

"It wasn't me," she said. He looked up at her. Her eyes were sad.

"But… you do not lie," he said.

"No. No, I don't," she agreed. "I truly believed that the things I told you were true, but it was the Ring that made me feel that way. I had no idea it was happening, Aragorn, but it had stolen into my mind in Lothlórien." She was speaking quickly now, as if she was afraid he would try to stop her. "It made me sick, in mind and in body. The Ring hates and rejects everything good, Aragorn, and you are good. You are the best of all Men, and so I hated you, I rejected you…"

Aragorn thought he must be imagining her words. His must have been driven mad by his grief, and now his mind fabricated something impossible to console him.

Tíniel watched his face anxiously, but it was emotionless. She nodded. This was the reaction she had expected, it seemed.

"I don't ask your forgiveness," she said quietly, "because it is the fault of my weak will as much as it is the Ring's. I just… you deserved to know the truth before we parted. You deserve so much, and…" Emotion was leaking into her voice despite her efforts, and she put a shaking hand to her temple. "I'm so sorry."

It was wrong that he felt so complete, so content, just hours after his friend had been killed in battle. But how could he not? She didn't hate him. He moved forward slowly and took Tíniel's face in his hands. She looked up at him, bewildered. He simply held her like that, looking down at her, marvelling at how her skin felt under his palms, at her black eyes. He was so close that if he bent his head a fraction, their lips would touch.

For a moment that lasted mere seconds, neither of them moved or breathed. But then Tíniel reached up and gently pulled his hands away.

"I don't lie," she reminded him. She seemed shaken. "I cannot be with you. I am betrothed to one of my own tribe, and I will not break that oath."

"You could," he murmured, knowing that his words weren't true. "It could be the last betrayal. The prophecy would be fulfilled, you wouldn't have to think about it anymore. And we could…" he shook his head. "We could be _happy_."

"No, we couldn't," she said gently. "It is my duty to wed him, and I will."

He took a few steps back, fighting the futile anger that rose within him. "Is he a good man?"

"He is."

"Will he protect you?"

"As I will protect him."

"But he is far away, with your people in the East," Aragorn said, unable to restrain the argument. "It would be folly to try to find him in the War. You would be killed."

"I hope not," she said. "But I must go. Galadriel said that my path would be decided for me before long, and so it has. I will not go with you, Aragorn, because I cannot —" she took a deep breath. "I _cannot_ betray you. I cannot let another man die for my mistakes. I will go East."

"You have come back to me, only to leave again," he said quietly. He moved forward and took her hands in his, meeting her gaze pleadingly. "Tíniel, I beg of you, stay. I need you by my side, more than I need sleep or food."

"I must go."

"You are grieving," he said. "You aren't in your right mind. I can't let you alone like that."

She smiled sorrowfully. "I have done my grieving for now," she said. "The rest will wait until the War is over. There is no place for it here."

"Don't go. Please."

"Aragorn…"

"Please don't leave me alone," he whispered. Even to himself, he sounded like a broken man. Perhaps he was.

"If I go, you may live," she said earnestly, and pulled her hands out of his grasp. "And so it must be goodbye." He simply watched her. He could think of nothing more to say.

"Perhaps our paths will cross again," she said softly.

"In battle, you mean," he said dully. "When your army fights mine."

She shook her head. "I shall never raise a sword in the Enemy's name, I swear to you on the gods."

He met her eyes and nodded slowly. "Good."

"Good," she echoed. "And goodbye."

Aragorn could feel his heart tearing inside him. It hurt. "I cannot say it."

She smiled again. This one almost reached her beautiful, sad eyes. "Then don't," she said. "Now call the others. We must move on."

He called them, and they came quickly. Their packs were lightened for the journey.

"Are you ready to leave?" Gimli asked them. "This waiting sits badly with me, and night draws nearer."

"We are ready," Aragorn said. "Farewell, Tíniel."

Gimli blinked. "What?"

"I do not go with you, Gimli," she answered sombrely. "Travel safely. May your axe stay sharp, and may you live long and well."

Aragorn watched as Gimli shut his mouth, sensing that it was pointless to argue. He bowed deeply to Tíniel, then wrapped her up in a bear hug.

"I'll miss you and your strange ways, lass," he told her. "I hope you find happiness and peace. You'll deserve some when everything is over."

He stepped aside for Legolas, who took her by the shoulders and studied her face. "And so you close another door in your life, princess," he said.

"Only to open another," she returned.

"May it be brighter than the others," he said. "I am glad to have known you, princess. Farewell."

They embraced, and Aragorn turned to leave, unable to bear any more.

"Won't you bid her goodbye too, Aragorn?" Gimli asked, puzzled.

He turned back to look at her. There was sadness in her eyes. He had the horrible feeling he'd never see her again, and this is how he would remember her. With sadness in her eyes.

"I already did, Gimli. Go safely, Tíniel," was all he said.

He was going to turn away again, but she moved too quickly. The space between them was suddenly gone, and she kissed him.

Everything else disappeared. He didn't move, only felt; she felt warm, solid, _there._ She felt like desperation and grief and longing. He knew he was going to lose her, that soon she would be gone, so he pulled her close, engrossed by her presence, holding her body as close as it could be to his. For a moment, he was whole; and then she disappeared.

She had only stepped back a foot, but Aragorn felt like they were separated by leagues.

"Go safely," she said. The sadness was back in her eyes. Wordless, Aragorn turned and walked away.

The kiss had lasted mere seconds, but he was reeling. He had found her, the woman who made him whole, who could soothe him with just a look, who could fix him by taking his hand. And she was behind him, growing further away with every step he took. Everything had gone wrong.

"Valar bring me happiness one day," he muttered to himself. "And if there is none, grant me death when my duty is done."

But he knew the truth. His duty would never be done.

Gimli and Legolas followed behind him, leaving Tíniel alone on the shore.

"She's a good girl," Gimli said. "A mighty fine warrior, too. Born a fighter, undoubtedly. Would that she could come with us."

"She belongs with her people," Legolas said. "Her land is the Eastern desert. Imagine if you had left your caves, never to speak your native tongue, never to see even one of your people for years on end. That has been her life."

"Nevertheless," Gimli returned gruffly. "I shall miss her jesting." His expression brightened. "But that kiss, Legolas! I _knew_ there was something between those two!"

"Doubtless you did," Legolas returned dryly.

"That kiss looked like a promise to me," the Dwarf said with certainty. "If things go our way, we shall see her again someday."

"No, my friend," Legolas said gently. "It carried no promise. It was a goodbye."

* * *

Tíniel didn't watch them go. She stood facing the river, hearing nothing but the ceaseless rush of its waters. She was numb. Mere hours ago, everything had been right in her world. Not perfect, but right. But now one man was dead, and the other gone.

There was no word in any language that could describe how she felt. There was physical pain, something she could feel in her chest with each painful throb of her continuing heartbeat. There was anger at herself and her selfish foolishness, anger for the gods, anger for the prophecy. But anger would gain her nothing. Most of all, she felt hopeless, empty.

She shut her eyes against the sunlight, reflecting off the river. This wasn't the first time she had lost someone. The whole world was at war, and she couldn't afford to grieve.

"I am sorry, Boromir," she said to the river. "I cannot think about you anymore. I have to go. I have to do something."

Because she _was_ going to do something. She was going to be useful. Aragorn had left her, but she could still help him — and she would, in any way left to her. She was sure of her path now; she had to go East and find her _bamyë_. It was her duty, if she really was Khondyë.

This purpose, no matter how fragile, made her feel better. And her mind now was freed from the influence of the Ring, so her thoughts were clearer than they had been for weeks. She had to put her grief behind her. She had to go.

Tíniel found her pack and made sure there was food and a waterskin inside. She needed nothing else, save her _mithiri_ at her hip and her two _vokhu_ strapped on her back. She carried the pack to the one remaining boat and threw it in the front, bending to pick up the paddle. But at that moment, a wave of dizziness crashed over her. She gasped, dropping the oar and falling to her knees in the shallow water.

The world whirled and spun around her. Nothing she saw made sense to her; nothing stayed still long enough for her to comprehend it. The spinning got faster, the colours blended together, and then all went black.

 _When Tíniel opened her eyes again, she was in a doom dream._

 _She was underwater in the ocean. She floated face down, arms splayed, her hair out and adrift around her head. It was eerily calm. Then her father, the Khondyë, plummeted from above and sank, bubbles gently trickling from his open mouth. She was powerless to move, powerless to help him, and she knew what came next._

 _Borund's body fell next, exploding in a torrent of bubbles. He reached for her, but sank swiftly into the darkness. Tíniel knew she was crying, but the ocean caught her tears and made them invisible._

 _A shimmering cascade of silvery bubbles heralded Boromir's arrival. He thrashed around in the water, trying to swim to the air, trying to escape his fate. His face was twisted with terror. He saw Tíniel and cried out to her, wasting his last remaining breath. She watched silently as he sank into the deep black and let her invisible tears fall._

 _Then the water was gone, and she stood alone in the desert. The horizon stretched endlessly before her, and the sky filled with blue-black storm clouds from the East. She looked down at her hands. On one finger there was a golden ring, flawlessly crafted and enchanting in its beauty. She recognised it for what it was, and pulled it off, throwing it as far away as she could._

" _Too late," came her brother's voice. Tíniel looked to her left and he was there, standing with Borund, their heads bowed as though in mourning. "Next for gold," he said._

 _Borund looked up and straight into her soul. "Promise me you will come back to us," he whispered, then a wind blew and he and Tcharum dissolved like sand into the breeze._

" _I am sorry this burden is yours to bear," Akhund said in his kindly way. He was beside her, reaching for her hand. "But this prophecy can be fulfilled by none but you. It is your fate."_

" _I hate my fate," she whispered, looking down at his weathered, sun-spotted hand._

" _Alas," he smiled. "What are my words to you now?"_

" _More," she answered. "I am wiser than I was. Your words mean more to me than they once did."_

 _She took his offered hand, but it had changed into Faramir's._

" _I do not want him dying in a place I cannot die beside him," he said, his face earnest._

" _If I am alive, I will come back to Minas Tirith," she heard herself promise. They had been words she'd spoken long ago._

 _But suddenly, they were forced apart, and she lost his hand. A small wooden boat, glowing like moonlight, drifted eerily through the air between them. Boromir lay in it, his face waxy white and dead. It continued on its path, carried by an invisible river._

 _Tíniel looked up, but Faramir was gone. The desert was gone too, and she was nowhere._

" _Wake me up," she said. There was utter silence, utter stillness._

" _Wake me up!" she cried out, her voice dampened by the vastness of the nothingness. "I know you are listening! I know you hear me!" Still, there was no reply._

 _All of Tíniel's pain, all of her grief, all of her wasted love, all of her fear bubbled up inside her, and she filled the nothingness with them._

" _WAKE ME UP!" she shouted._

And she was awake. The doom dream was over. She pushed herself up into a sitting position, dripping wet, and looked at the sky. The sun was setting.

"Why are you doing this?" she called to it. It continued to sink, but she shook her head and continued. "I know you can hear me," she said. "I know that you watch me, and you listen. You like me to know that. But why are you doing this to me?"

A tiny blue wren alighted on the hull of the boat next to her and chirped. She looked at it.

"Everything that was me is gone," she said brokenly. "You destroyed Tchakhura, and I created Tíniel. Now you have destroyed her too. Now I am nothing."

The wren tilted its head, regarding her with one beady black eye.

"And yet the prophecy is not complete. I must betray again, be destroyed again," Tíniel went on. "Do you want me to build myself again, only to be rebroken? Is that what you ask of me? Because I do not know if I am able."

The wren chirped once and hopped off the boat and onto her knee. It chirped again, and in the sound Tíniel heard a voice clearer than any she'd ever heard before.

 _You must,_ it said. She looked about her, even though she knew the words had come from the gods. The wren chirped a third time and hopped onto her hand. Tíniel brought it up to her face.

"Strange creature," she said. "Are you a bird, or a god?"

It pecked at her thumb.

"I have to go, don't I?" Tíniel said. The little bird chirped.

She sighed. "I accept," she told it. "I accept your quest. I've been living it for years, but I will not run from it any longer." With her index finger from her free hand, she gently stroked the tiny feathers on the wren's head. "My fear and my weakness, I left them behind in that nothingness." She looked at it seriously in the eye. "I can fight again now. Take me where I must go, and I will do what I need to do."

Without warning, the wren took flight. It wound its way into the sky and flew East across the river, disappearing into the dusky light of the fast-approaching night.

"East it is," Tíniel murmured to herself. For a moment, she looked back to the West. The last vestiges of the sun glinted through the trees, beckoning her to follow the man she could never have. But she turned back to the river and got to her feet. She shoved the boat into the stream, swiftly climbing in and steering it straight. She would be across by the time dark had properly fallen.

 _Khaviga_ , she heard in the back of her mind. But somehow the curse didn't mean all it had before. It meant more now. It was one of her many names, and it fit her as her sword fit her hand.

She gripped the paddle tightly, then frowned and glanced down at her hands. They weren't shaking. Nor did she feel nauseous or panicked. She was in control. Tíniel took a deep breath and fixed her eyes on the far bank.

* * *

 **And so Boromir is dead. I'm sorry — there never was any choice really, the prophecy was after his blood the whole time. But a huge thank you to my followers, an enormous one to my favouriters and a cosmically gargantuan one to my reviewers. You can't know how excited I get for just one! Stay tuned, because the third part of our heroine's story is about to begin...**

 **S**


	22. Maruvikh

**22 – MARUVIKH**

 **CW: Contains graphic imagery and explicit violence. I'll put up a brief summary at the start of next chapter so if you skip, you won't be left out of the loop! Read at your own discretion.**

* * *

Tcharum kept standing. The leader of the orcs — Tcharum didn't know his name — was staring at him, so he forced himself not to move, even though his legs were trembling with exhaustion and his head was reeling. If he showed weakness in front of that orc, it would be the end of him.

"Strength, Tcharum," Borund murmured from his left. The _bamyë_ had been there almost two full days, forced to stand in ranks without food or water. And without a Khondyë, Tcharum reflected numbly. His father had been taken away by the orcs immediately after the skirmish had ended, and they hadn't seen him since.

The relative peace of his rambling thoughts were shattered when the orc leader strode up to Borund, drew his dagger and pressed it hard to Borund's throat.

"Did you speak, rat?" he hissed.

Like the rest of them, Borund was wearing his _vadi_ so the orc could only see his eyes.

"We were ordered to be silent," he answered. His voice was quiet, distant, but his eyes burned like black coals.

"I heard a voice," the orc said, pressing the blade harder so that it drew blood. "Are you calling me stupid?"

"I am not," was Borund's cold reply.

"Are you not content to stand?"

Borund did not reply to this. He would not lie, Tcharum knew.

The orc slowly withdrew his blade and stepped back. He surveyed the ragged men and women before him.

"Rats!" he bellowed. "You are weak, cowardly rats, and you will bear your punishment until you are commanded otherwise!" He smiled cruelly at his fellow orcs. "Or until you die."

Tcharum didn't listen to their inhuman laughter; instead, he retreated numbly into his thoughts, where it was warmer and safe. Dwarves were tough fighters, he reflected. More orcs had fallen to Dwarvish axes than on the swords of the Northmen. But they'd taken the Dwarves by surprise during the skirmish, so there had been less danger.

There were no Dwarves down South in Khand. Or perhaps there were. Tcharum didn't know. But this was as far North as he had ever been. They were North of Mordor, North of the great Encircling Mountains. It was cold and green, and the stars were different. Nothing like home.

Tcharum half smiled under his _vadi_. Before they had charged the Dwarves' encampment, Tcharum had scouted it with Petakh and his father. The Khondyë had shaken his head.

"We were the raided once," he'd said. "And now we have become the raiders." The camp was small, a travelling group of fifty, sixty at most. There had been women and children. They proved to be the downfall of the _bamyë_.

The raid went smoothly. The Maruvikh had lost three men and a woman, but the Dwarves had all been killed — all but the women and the children. And because of that, because of those left alive, the _bamyë_ had stood to attention, wounded, hungry, exhausted. For two days. Some had already fallen.

Tcharum felt himself leaning heavily to the side. He wondered what would happen if he let himself fall. It was almost night. Would they see him? Would the darkness hide his weakness, allow him to sleep?

"Tcharum. Tcharum, look," Borund whispered. Tcharum opened his eyes and with a momentous effort, stood up straight. A line of Dwarves was being led by orcs toward them. Tcharum frowned. It was the women and children. The prisoners they had taken in the attack.

The orc leader stepped up onto a stone and looked down at them.

"Mordor takes no prisoners," he roared. "Look on what you have done!"

The Dwarves didn't understand the Black Speech. They huddled together, the mothers clutching their children to them. Until they were ripped away by the orcs.

Tcharum forced himself to watch. The prisoners deserved that honour, at least. The orcs slit the throats of the little children. The mothers howled. Tcharum watched. Then the women were beheaded, and their blood-spattered heads were thrown into a gruesome pile. Tcharum watched.

" _Khuma_ ," he whispered under his breath as the last one lost her head. But even as they were dragging her body away, even as he thought the bloodshed was over, they brought out another man. It was his father.

The exhausted _bamyë_ stirred. The Khondyë's hands were bound behind him. He had been stripped of his tunic and was dressed only in his leggings and boots. His _hamarakhi_ hung around his neck. They had cut his beard haphazardly, and his face and torso were covered with bruises.

"Khondyë," someone called out behind Tcharum. He couldn't turn to see who had spoken. He couldn't look away from his father.

"Mordor takes no prisoners!" the orc barked again. "And payment must be made for your insolence!"

"No," Tcharum said. He staggered forward, but an orc shoved him back. "No!" he shouted. "Let him be!"

One of the orcs handed the leader a heavy club studded with iron. Taking it in two hands, the orc breathed deeply and then swung it at the Khondyë. It hit him square in the belly with a dull thud, and he screamed. Tcharum fell to his knees.

"Just kill him," he cried out, his voice raw. "Please, just kill him!"

But the orc swung again. This time, the spikes tore lumps of flesh out of the Khondyë's torso. He screamed in agony and his legs gave out, but the orcs either side of him held him up.

Borund crouched next to Tcharum. "Get to your feet," he said. His voice was trembling, and his jaw was clenched. "There will be no easy death here. Give the Khondyë honour as he dies." He offered his shaking hand. Tcharum took it and pulled himself up. Then he squared his shoulders. And he watched.

The orc swung a third time, and a fourth. There was a squelching thump each time the club landed. Red blood and pieces of torn flesh dropped onto the grey-green grass. The Khondyë's chest was no longer skin, but a thing of gaping, mangled red. The fifth swing went higher than the others. Tcharum did not flinch when he heard the breastbone shatter. Nor did he make a sound when they threw his _vadrë_ to the ground.

The orc cast the club aside, panting. He turned back to the silent _bamyë_.

"Disobey again, and you will suffer," he hissed. "We march back to Mordor in the morning. Get your rest, rats."

To their credit, not one of Tcharum's people moved. They stood eerily still, their eyes on the crumpled form of their Khondyë. Tcharum looked to Borund. His friend met his eyes, unspoken words passing between them. Then they walked forward together and knelt before their chief.

Tcharum forced himself to look at his father's face, not the horror below. The smell made him want to throw up.

"Vadrë," he said quietly. He put his hand gently to the Khondyë's cheek. His eyes fluttered open.

"Death is coming," he said. His breath gurgled in his chest.

"It is," Tcharum said. His voice shook minutely.

"Take the _hamarakhi_ ," said the Khondyë. His breath rattled. "Keep it for your sister."

Tcharum drew in a sharp breath. "Tchakhura is gone, Vadrë."

"She is alive…"

"How can you know that?" he whispered.

His father's breaths were growing shorter. "You," he breathed.

Tcharum took his hand and gripped it tightly. "Yes?"

"You…" the Khondyë murmured, fainter still.

"Yes?" Tcharum said again, tears blurring his eyes. But no more came.

"Gods be good," Borund said, and carefully took the _hamarakhi_ from around the neck of the dead man. He held it out to Tcharum. " _Khuma Khondyë_ ," he said.

Tcharum looked up at him. He felt numb inside. "Do you think it is true?" he asked. "That Tchakhura is alive?"

"We cannot say otherwise," Borund replied. "But there is no way he could have known."

"I cannot be Khondyë while there is the chance that she lives," he said dully.

"There will always be that chance," Borund replied. "But the people need a leader. If she lives, but never comes back, there is no line of succession. And if she is dead, then you are Khondyë."

"Three years," Tcharum said. "Let three years pass. And if the Maruvikh _bamyë_ survives, I will take the place of Tchakhura as Khondyë." It felt strange to speak his sister's name. He hadn't for a long time.

"Should we burn him here?" Borund asked.

He needed time to think. He was exhausted, hungry, thirsty, and now he had to lead. But they had little choice. Or did they? Tchakhura had always believed that they had a choice.

"No," he said. "We will sing for him in a better place than here. Make a stretcher for his body. Tell the _bamyë_ to have any wounds seen to and bound. Tell them to sleep until midnight. Then we kill the orcs, and we go."

Borund looked up at him, but didn't argue. "Where to?"

"South, at least. We will skirt around Mordor. Any forces of Mekakhond that we come across, we destroy. We will not suffer our Khondyë to be executed for his mercy, then walk quietly to another's bidding."

Borund nodded curtly. "I always knew you had the heart of a leader, Tcharum."

Tcharum looked down at his father's dead, staring eyes. "As did he," he said. "Much good it did us."

* * *

Tíniel woke early, and was on her way before the sun had risen. She had barely slept since she'd crossed the river, and there was precious little cover in the mountains of Emyn Muil.

She didn't mind the wakefulness, though; it stopped her dreaming. They hadn't been doom dreams, but they were filled with Aragorn's face. Sometimes he was smiling his lopsided half-smile at her. Other times he simply watched her with sad eyes. But she knew it wasn't like the dreams before. He wasn't really there.

Walking gave her too much time to think, and there was nobody there to talk to her. So often she would run, until her legs gave out and she fell to the ground. Sometimes she would speak aloud to the gods like a crazed woman. They never sent her another bird, but she knew they heard her, and it was better than nobody.

Twice she came across orcs, but she avoided them both times. She didn't know where she was headed, but she didn't want to get slowed down on her way there. And picking fights with orc kind was a sure way to get slowed down.

But today travelling would be more straightforward: the mountains were behind her, and the way ahead was clearer. If she remembered her maps correctly, there was a path before her that lead over hard ground between two treacherous marshes, the Dead Marshes and Nindalf. The only problem was that it would spit her out on the wide, flat plains in front of the Black Gate.

She should have known it was a foolish decision. She'd been tired when she made it, but she knew that was no excuse. The land she was walking had no cover, and when the sun showed itself above the horizon, she immediately saw the orc patrol.

" _Vorukhi_ ," she swore under her breath. There was no way that they hadn't seen her, but they were still almost half a league away. She had time.

Hurriedly, she shrugged her pack off her back, unclasped her Elvish cloak and stuffed it in. She had no _vadi_ , but there was nothing she could do for it now. She pulled out a small knife and slid it into her boot. Then she put her pack back on, took a deep breath, and began walking again. Her hand rested casually on the hilt of her _mithiri_.

It was a matter of minutes before they met. She stopped and watched them warily.

"Khandi scum," one of them spat in the Black Speech, and a low growl went through the others. She counted twenty-seven of them.

"Where is your company, rat?" another asked her.

"I was separated from them," she replied stoutly.

"We can see that," he snarled, and his company laughed. "I asked you a question, rat. Where is your company?"

"The Black Lands," she said, hoping she sounded credible. For all she knew, she was telling the truth. "They went on without me. I am going to them now."

Another of the orcs broke his rank and paced toward her like a wolf toward its prey. His eyes glittered, and Tíniel's heart began to beat faster.

"There is no way you could be coming from this far West," he growled.

She shrugged. "The Khandi do not know this land well."

"Where is your head cover, woman?" he asked.

Her mouth went dry. "I lost it."

"You… lost it," he said, and licked his black lips. She fought the urge to shudder. He turned to his commander. "Her clothes look different to the ones that the others wear, too. We should search her."

The orc leader scowled. "If this is a waste of time…"

"We'll see," the orc said, grinning horribly and turning back to her. Tíniel froze for a moment. She couldn't fight off twenty-seven orcs.

"Your pack, rat," the orc growled. She took it off and dropped it on the ground before him. Her heart was racing now, and her hand automatically twitched toward her sword. The orc untied the ties and upended it, letting the contents spill out into the dust. There was a water skin, a blanket, rope, a flint, ordinary travelling equipment. But there was also Elvish bread and her Elvish cloak. The orc looked back up at her, his slimy grin widening.

"What have we here?" he said. He knew he had her.

Tíniel shrugged. "I fought an Elf."

There was laughter again from the horde. "Lies!" the orc said. "You wouldn't be here if you had!"

His commander scowled. "The Khandi rats never lie."

Tíniel nodded mutely and began gathering her belongings and stuffing them back into her pack.

"Why do you keep the Elf-filth?" the orc before her asked, not giving in so easily.

"The cloak is warm," she said. "And I will need to keep the Elf-bread for supplies if I am to get East."

"Elvish food tastes like the ashes of mumak shit," the orc replied.

She shrugged, straightening up. "More for me if you don't want it." She looked behind him to the orc captain. "Can I go?"

He stared at her for a few seconds, still suspicious. Then he nodded to the orc in front of her, and two more behind him.

"You three will escort the rat. If the Khandi has found a way to lie, if she isn't what she says she is, you may kill her immediately."

"Immediately?" the orc before her said. His smile sickened her.

"Or after you are done with her," the leader replied. "But let her escape, and it's your heads I'll have."

* * *

They set up their _patchu_ close together behind a clump of scraggly trees. It wasn't ideal, Tcharum thought, but it was the best they could do. They were two days travel south of the Black Gate, on the Western side of the mountains. They'd skirted the wide plain that lay before the Gate, travelling as quickly as they could by day and by night. By some miracle of the gods, they had not been seen.

Now they were stopping for the first time. They weren't out of danger yet, but Tcharum knew his _bamyë_ couldn't continue without rest. They had to take the chance and stop for the night.

" _Khuma, Khondyë_ ," came Borund's voice from outside his _patchi_.

"Enter," he called, and the tall man ducked through the door flap. "I told you not to call me that, Borund."

"I'm sorry, my friend. It just feels strange to be without a leader. It feels like we are snake without a head."

"The snake seems to be surviving its condition quite well," he replied dryly.

"Tcharum," Borund said seriously. "Tchakhura is not coming back. She's been gone for years. And now, more than ever, the _bamyë_ needs a leader. The snake needs its head."

Tcharum sighed. "It _would_ be difficult to eat without one."

"I'm trying to be serious here," Borund said, coming to sit down opposite him.

"Or to see. Or talk. Heads are quite useful, really."

"Do you want me to chop yours off, or can you shut up by yourself?"

"You see?" Tcharum said. "You wouldn't be allowed to say things like that to me if I were Khondyë."

"I wouldn't mind so much," Borund said, reaching for a water skin and pulling the stopper out with his teeth.

Tcharum shook his head thoughtfully and stared down at his hands. "What if she is alive?" he said softly, almost to himself.

Borund looked up. "She's not, Tcharum. She is the greatest fighter I ever saw, the greatest of the _variagura_. But even she couldn't fight off a crew of angry pirates."

"But what if she did?"

Borund shook his head, deciding to humour him. "Then she will have built a life for herself somewhere," he said quietly. "She's probably a champion in the fighting pits of Far Harad, or a Strong Sword in the deserts far to the East. And some nights, she sits by her fire and remembers the Maruvikh fires long ago. And she thinks of us, and wonders where we are." He smiled sadly and shook his head. "But she doesn't know where we are. And if she did, she would stay far away, for fear her father will execute her."

"She's safe from that now."

"Yes, but there's no way she could know that Robekh Khondyë is dead."

"I wish I could have talked to her," Tcharum said. "One last time, before she left."

"What would you say?"

He shrugged. "The usual things. I'd tell her she was the best sister I could have asked for. That I've needed her a hundred times since she left, and I was worse off for her not being there. That I wish for her now, to come back to me and tell me what I need to do. That I loved her."

Borund nodded. "If she's alive…" he gave a short laugh. "We should have been married three years ago. I could have had a child."

"No child should be born into times like these," Tcharum said consolingly.

"I know. Doesn't stop me wishing, though," Borund replied. "I miss her."

"So do I."

They were silent for a moment, then Tcharum shook himself from his reverie. "Was there something you needed?"

"Of course," Borund laid the waterskin aside and got to his feet. "I think it is time, Tcharum. We should sing for the dead Khondyë."

The _bamyë_ made a fire in the middle of their camp, despite the danger of being seen. The flames licked hungrily at the Khondyë's body, and Tcharum began to sing. The women of the _bamyë_ joined in, then the men. They sang the words quietly, not wanting to attract unwanted attention. At last, Tcharum drew his dagger and made a cut on his palm. He let his blood drip over his father, from his head to his feet.

When the song was over, they all fell silent and watched the flames. But the silence was soon disrupted.

Petakh came over to Tcharum at a run. "Orcs approaching from the East," she panted. "Do we fight?"

Tcharum glanced back at the firelit faces, all waiting for his command. "Tell the children to hide," he said. "We will fight."

* * *

Tíniel was shoved from behind. She staggered, but kept her feet and her silence. The orcs had been trying to provoke her for days, but she didn't bite. She didn't want to give them a reason to kill her, or worse, before she could escape.

"We're stopping here, rat," the tall one growled. Over the days, she had found ways to distinguish them: one was tall, one short, and the last one evil. They all were bad, of course — but he was the worst.

Obediently, she took off her pack and sat down. "Can I have my weapons back?"

"Why, so you can sink them in our guts?" the short one snarled. "I think not."

"Wouldn't mind if she sank one in your gut," the evil one muttered.

"Go find us firewood," the short one ordered her, ignoring the evil one's comment.

"Fool! Do you want the rat to run away on us?" the tall one spat. Grumbling curses, the short one went to find firewood himself.

"You're on watch tonight," the evil one said to the tall one.

"Not likely," he replied. "I watched half of last night, and you did none."

"I watched the whole night before, if you're counting," the evil one growled, getting to his feet.

"I can watch," she offered amiably.

They both snorted, and she shrugged. "Our people are not enemies."

"No," the evil one said, coming to stand before her. "But I don't know about you. Our people are not enemies, but you and I could be."

She shrugged again and dug in her pack for a wafer of lembas.

"Or," he said, sitting down beside her and putting a black, clawed hand on her leg, "we _could_ be friends."

Tíniel stiffened, but said nothing. The tall one laughed uproariously. "I don't like your chances!"

"That's too bad," the evil one sneered, blowing his foul breath into her face. "But I don't mind. You don't need to be happy about it."

"I've had a Khandi girl before," the tall one said, boasting. "They put up a good fight, and word has it they kill themselves after, for all their honour. But I didn't stick around to see if that was true."

"Well then," the evil one snarled, shifting closer still and squeezing her leg. "How about we find out?"

He pressed his face against her neck and sniffed her. Tíniel couldn't hold herself back any longer, and in less than a second, she'd pulled the short knife from her boot and stabbed it hilt-deep into the orc's throat. He gurgled, choking on his own blood, his eyes wide with surprise.

The tall one leapt to his feet with a shriek of rage and barrelled toward her. He had drawn his long, jagged blade and he swung it mightily. Tíniel ducked under the swipe fluidly and her knife found purchase between his ribs. He shrieked again, this time with pain, and she yanked her knife out and kicked his sword from his hand.

But his other swung at her, and his sharp nails drew blood from her cheek. She grunted and drove the blade in twice more. He sank to his knees and finally died.

Tíniel stepped back quickly and took her _mithiri_ and _vokhu_ from the evil one's pack. There was still no sign of the tall one, so she tied her pack back up, put it on her back, and ran. She headed South, straight into the fens of Nindalf. It would be slow and dangerous, but at least she wouldn't be followed by any orcs.

She used a long, sturdy stick to feel the ground before her. Half the time she was knee deep in a thin, foul-smelling mud. There was a strange mist about the marsh too, one that clung to her cloak with silent tendrils.

She cut South-East through, and by the time she made it out of Nindalf — cold, tired and flecked with mud — the sun was beginning to rise. She didn't know where she was anymore. There were mountains silhouetted against the rising sun in the East; she knew that was Mordor, but Mordor was vast. She could be anywhere between the river and the mountains.

Well, there was still land to the East, she thought. So, East it was. The countryside she was walking through now was beautiful; it was green, and hilly, with woods all about. Tíniel supposed there might have been birds here in a better time, when they weren't driven away by the Eastern menace.

She came across a small stream and fell to her knees beside it, discarding her pack. She splashed the ice-cold water onto her face and neck. It didn't do much to make her less tired, and she decided she'd have to stop and rest there.

A strange bird twittered as she took off her gauntlets and washed the coat of silt and mud from her hands and forearms. She redid the braids in her hair, emptied and refilled her water skin. She still felt exhausted, but cleaner. At last she lay down heavily on the soft grass, and slowly her eyes drifted shut.

It was peaceful there, with the sound of the running water, the faint sighing of the wind through the leaves and the occasional twittering of the bird. It lulled her tired mind, brought her closer and closer to sleep…

But then her eyes shot open. She could hear a bird — but there were no birds in this place. Which meant it had to be a…

Suddenly, someone grabbed her under the arms and hoisted her up. Another appeared before her and pressed a dagger to her throat.

"A Khandi deserter, Captain!" he said. Tíniel caught her breath. His face was covered up to the eyes and he wore a hood, but he was speaking the Common Tongue — and with a Southern accent.

"The Khandi do not desert," she answered him. "And nor do they speak Westron. I am not your enemy."

He looked back at her sharply, his eyes glinting under the hood. "Captain! You'll want to see this!"

Another man appeared from behind a clump of bushes and walked toward them. Something about him struck Tíniel as strangely familiar.

"What is it?" he asked, and the moment she heard the Captain's voice, she knew why the gods had sent her East.

"Faramir!" she cried out, choking back a sob of relief.

He gasped and strode forward. "Tíniel?"

"Yes," she said. "Faramir, it's me. I've come back to you."

* * *

 **Whoa, does this mean the Maruvikh tribe is back in the picture? How will Tíniel cope if her two worlds collide? Well I suppose that's for me to know and you to find out... please leave a review to let me know what you think!**

 **S**


	23. The Window on the West

**23 — THE WINDOW ON THE WEST**

* * *

 _I skipped the last chapter because of the content warning – what happened?_

 _It got pretty crazy! We got a glimpse of what Tcharum, Borund and Tíniel's old tribe have been up to over the last five years without her. Turns out the Khondyë took them to Mordor after all, to do Sauron's dirty work. That involved raiding a company of Dwarves North of Mordor, and when they refused to kill innocent women and children, the Khondyë – Tíniel's father – was executed by orcs in punishment. With his last breath, the Khondyë told Tcharum to give his hamarakhi, the symbol of his chiefdom, to Tíniel. Tcharum took the hamarakhi, almost certain that his sister was long dead. He decided to take the tribe back home in the South rather than continue serving Sauron._

 _Meanwhile, Tíniel was running East, desperate to find direction again after Boromir's death. Despite an unfortunate run-in with a bunch of orcs, she almost managed to make it to Mordor. But before she was there, she ran into someone else... Faramir!_

* * *

Faramir lowered his hood and pulled down his mask. His face was disbelieving. "Tíniel?" he breathed. "Am I dreaming?"

"No," she answered. Faramir nodded to his men and they released her, removing the dagger from her throat. Tíniel drew in a deep breath.

When she looked back up, he was staring at her with tears in his eyes. "I thought —" his voice broke. "I thought you were dead. Boromir, he…"

Her smile faded. "There is something I need to tell you," she said quietly. "Is there someplace we might talk?"

Faramir nodded, then turned to his men. "Continue your patrol without me. Come back to headquarters at midday to report. That's where we'll be."

The men nodded and melted into the trees, their mottled green-brown cloaks confusing the eye. One of them, little more than a boy, stopped in front of her.

"You're the lady Tíniel of Minas Tirith?" he asked. She nodded. "I've heard tales of you, the good Southron," he went on, flushing to the roots of his hair. "It's an honour to have you among us, lady."

"Damrod, come!" one of the rangers called, and he disappeared with the others.

Tíniel looked back up to Faramir, frowning. "What was that?"

"That is the least of the questions we're going to have to answer this morning," he said. There was a pause, and then he shook his head wryly. "I can't believe you're here," he said. The way he moved, the way he spoke, reminded Tíniel painfully of Boromir. She wanted to wrap her arms around him. She wanted him to tell her everything was forgiven, but she was afraid the death of Boromir was unforgivable.

"I am glad to see you again, Faramir," she said instead.

He nodded, somewhat awkwardly. "Come on then," he said. "We need to speak."

* * *

They followed the stream through the woods and up a steep slope until they came to a cave in the side of the hill, obscured by vines. Faramir led her through the slender opening and into a wide, well-lit space. One of its walls were open and looked out to the West. A thin cascade of water fell over it like a curtain. It was beautiful.

"You should see it at sunset," Faramir said, sitting on a roughly made wooden chair and gesturing for her to do the same. "It's called the Window on the West. At dust, the sun through the water makes the cave look like it is alight."

"It is already beautiful," she replied. "Peaceful."

"Usually we blindfold the outsiders we bring here," Faramir said, and looked at her carefully. "But I hope you are still to be trusted."

Tíniel looked down at her hands. Could she be trusted not to betray? No. There was no way to escape her doom.

"You don't answer me," he said flatly.

"I am sorry," she replied. "There are many things I need to tell you."

"That's why we're here," he said.

Tíniel hesitated. She didn't know where to begin — at the beginning, or at the most important point? She knew why she couldn't decide: she was afraid. She Faramir here, before her, one last friend, and she didn't want to lose him.

Stop being cowardly, she told herself. It is his right to know. It is your duty to tell.

"Boromir is dead," she said quietly. It was the first time she'd spoken those words aloud since they day it had happened, and it tore open the wound again. "We were part of a Fellowship of nine, entrusted with a quest to save the Free People. He died defending two of that Company."

He didn't meet her eyes, staring out at the waterfall instead. "I know," he said. "I knew he was dead, though I didn't know how."

She stared at him. "How?"

"I was in Minas Tirith," he said, still looking to the West, "five days before I came here. I was speaking with my father, in the late afternoon. And we heard the horn."

"Boromir's horn," she realised.

"It sounded like an echo in my mind," he went on. "I thought I'd imagined it, but father heard it too. The horn blew thrice, but the third time it was cut short. We thought it was a sign that some bad thing had happened, for we'd had no news from either of you since you left."

"That was the day that Boromir died," Tíniel said.

"Three nights afterwards, I was in Osgiliath, alone by the river. I saw, or dreamed that I saw, a silver boat floating toward me, though there was no one steering it. I waded into the shallows to see it better. It came within arm's reach of me, and Boromir was lying within."

Tíniel watched his face; he was crying, though his voice gave no sign.

"His chest was punctured with jagged wounds. His hands were folded on his broken sword, but dozens of orc-blades were piled at his feet. His eyes were open, and for a moment I thought he was there, and I called to him. But then I realised he couldn't see." He shook his head and looked back at her. "He was dead. It was like a dream, a doom dream. But I knew it was real. I knew he was dead, and now he has passed down the River into the Sea. Night oft brings news to near kindred, so they say."

"Nobody says that," she smiled through her tears. "You just read it in a book."

He half smiled up at her, and there was a flash of familiarity, of the way things had been before. But then it was gone.

"Were you there when he died?" he asked.

Her smile faded, and she nodded. "You need to know why he died," she said. "It's a long story. It began five years ago in Khand, when there was a prophecy spoken about me."

She told him everything. He didn't interrupt, didn't react in any way, simply listened to her. She told him about the prophecy and the first betrayal, about their journey to Imladris and how Boromir had reacted when he found out. She told him about the Fellowship, about Isildur's bane and their quest to destroy it. She told him about Aragorn, though she didn't mention the way she'd felt about him. She told him about her journey to Lothlórien with Elrohir, and how the Company had met her there. She told him of their journey down the River, how Boromir died, and how she'd failed to save him.

"He died with honour," she said. "He was defending the Halflings to his death. We put him in the boat, just as you saw, and sent him down the River. But I cannot understand how the boat survived the falls of Rauros."

"If it was Elvish made, as you say, then I believe what I saw. If you meet the Lady of the Golden Wood, you must expect strange things to follow."

"Strange and terrible," she replied. "Had I not re-joined the Fellowship at Lórien, Boromir might still —" she dashed away another tear angrily. "He might still live."

"He would not. You had no hand in his death, Tíniel."

"Faramir, you don't understand what I am saying. I _betrayed_ Boromir, I let him die. Why aren't you angry? Why do you not hate the sight of me?" Her voice rose, and she stood up and paced around the cave. "Boromir died for me, because of me! He was the second betrayal, all for a golden ring! Why don't you cast me out? Why don't you kill me?"

He stood too, his face drawn. "Is that what you want, Tíniel? Do you want me to punish you more than you've already punished yourself?"

She stared at him. He was the spitting image of his older brother. "Why won't you?" she whispered.

He shook his head and smiled sadly. "Because I understand," he said. "I understand that the Ring corrupted your mind, and Boromir's too, just as it would any Man. This is your doom, Tíniel, this is the prophecy, and nothing you could have done would have let you escape it."

She was shaking, her whole body trembling. "I know that," she sobbed. "I know, but I will never forget that I chose the Ring over him. I knew what I was doing. I wanted to make that choice, so I made it, and I will hate myself for it until the day I die."

"I don't hate you," he answered quietly. "I love you, little sister."

"Faramir, I'm just — I am so sorry," she said hollowly, her exhaustion suddenly setting back in.

"I've missed him unspeakably for the months you were gone," he said. "Now… now I'll have to miss him for the rest of my life. And to think he died so close to home…" his voice broke and he buried his face in his hands, his body wracked by sobs.

"Faramir…"

"I know," he said. He held out his arms. "Now would you just come here?"

She laughed tearfully and hugged him. She felt protected in his arms, his cheek resting on her head.

"We're all we have now," he said.

She nodded. "Now you truly are my brother. We are bound by blood. By Boromir's blood."

He released her. For a moment neither of them spoke but looked West out of the Window. The direction of the Sea, Tíniel thought. Gods carry you gently, Boromir.

At last, Faramir drew in a deep, shuddering breath and wiped his face. "Your story isn't done yet," he said. "How did you come to be here?"

"Another strange tale," Tíniel said wryly. "The gods speak to me."

"The Valar?" Faramir frowned. "How do you mean?"

"Through doom dreams, mostly," she said. "But they are always watching, always listening. Why they have an interest in me, I cannot say. But it was the gods who told me to go East, and here you are."

Faramir's frown deepened. "And how do you know this?"

Tíniel smiled, got up and walked over to the screen of water made by the waterfall in the Window.

"Are you listening?" she asked the gods quietly. "Will you show him a sign?"

At that moment, a sudden gust of wind blew against the waterfall, showering them both in a fine mist.

Faramir got to his feet slowly, staring at her. "Mere coincidence?" he whispered, with no certainty whatsoever in his voice.

"You may decide," she said.

"You are a marvel, little sister," he said. They sat once more, Faramir's face now a picture of wonderment.

"And so here I am," Tíniel finished lamely.

"So here you are," Faramir echoed. Then he sat forward. "This Man Aragorn, who is he? Where does he come from?"

Aragorn, Tíniel thought. She could see his face in her mind, every detail. His sad grey eyes. His half-smile. His kindness, and courage. He was gone now.

"Aragorn is Isildur's heir," she said aloud. "He is a Ranger from the North, but he promised Boromir he would come back to Minas Tirith with us. He intends to take the throne, should we survive and win this war."

"And when did you fall in love with him?" Faramir asked. Tíniel looked up sharply and he smiled. "I've known you for years, and never once have you looked that way about a man."

She shrugged and looked back down. "Yes, I loved him," she admitted. "But that is something that must not be. I have let him go."

"You are the wiser in this subject, I suppose," Faramir said. "Do you think he is truly Isildur's heir?"

"I do. Boromir was satisfied with his claim as well."

"Then I believe it. It would be a great thing if he were to come to Minas Tirith. I never thought I would see the return of the king in my time."

"Nor has any man for many generations. But he is coming. And he will be a good king, if he has the chance to rule."

"A war must be won first," he said.

"Yes, it must," she said, "which brings me to _my_ questions. What are you doing here?"

"Waging war," Faramir said with a smile. "The road through Ithilien is a thoroughfare for the Enemy's Southern troops coming North. We ambush them here, prevent many of them from making it to the Black Gate and into Mordor."

Tíniel frowned. "Troops of Men?" she asked.

"I know," Faramir said. "And I hate to kill any beast that is not orc or goblin. But they fight for him."

"They are threatened and blackmailed until they choose between fighting with him or being slaughtered by him," she said tightly.

"I am sorry," he said. "But we have no choice."

She sighed. "I know that well enough. Peace between North and South is too much to wish for."

"You speak truly. The Rangers of Ithilien here despise Southrons."

"I meant to ask you about that too," she said. "One of your men before called me the good Southron. And he recognised me, though I have never met him before."

"Ah, yes," Faramir said. "I'm afraid you've become something of a legend in Minas Tirith."

She raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

"My father was… unhappy when you left for Imladris with Boromir, against his orders. The Guard heard of it, and you became the fierce Southron woman that no man commands."

"That is ridiculous."

"Not so much. The soldiers already admired you from training with you. Not to mention the fact that you ate half your meals with us, which no woman has done before."

"And now I'm 'the good Southron' in Ithilien?"

"You have been brought up once or twice by my men from the city."

Tíniel shook her head ruefully. "I don't know if this is good or bad," she said.

"It needn't be either," he replied, standing and stretching. "But I should go. I've left my men long enough for you, good Southron. And you need food and sleep."

She nodded. "I'm dead on my feet. Is there a place to lie down?"

"You can have my chamber. Do you see the passageway there? Go down until you come to the end, and take the left path. My chamber is at the end of that one. There is food within."

Tíniel nodded and stood too. "Will you be back tonight?"

"Yes," he said, and hugged her again. "Rest easy. I won't leave you alone here, if I can manage to stay alive. I thank the Valar for sending you here, Tíniel."

"I missed you, brother," she replied. "Stay safe."

* * *

It was late afternoon when Tíniel woke from the sleep of the dead. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. She'd slept deeply and dreamlessly, better than she had in a very long time.

She put her belt and weapons back on before leaving Faramir's little chamber and making her way through the passageways back up to the Window. There were two men there; one of them was injured, and the other stitching his wound.

"Where can I find the Captain?" she asked them.

The one doing the stitching looked up. "You cannot go out, lady," he said, and turned back to the wound. "There is fighting."

"I can defend myself," she said drily, gesturing to the sword at her hip.

The man shook his head. "I am sorry, lady, but Captain Faramir would not forgive me."

Tíniel shrugged. "Very well. I will find them myself." She turned to leave the cave, but as she reached the entrance the ranger called out to her.

"My lady!"

She turned back and raised an eyebrow.

"Follow the river down," he said. "You'll hear the sound of battle soon enough."

The slope was steep and hard to take at a run, but she went as fast as she could. The ranger in the cave had been right; as she went on, she could hear the sounds of fighting. Blades rang as they clashed, men cried out in fear and pain.

She drew her sword as she ran. She had no wish to fight Men of the South or East, but if it meant defending her own, she would do what was needed.

Tíniel veered away from the stream and ran through the trees toward the battle. But just as she burst onto the road where the ambush had taken place, the fighting ended. The track was strewn with bodies, mostly clad in Haradi red and black.

"Faramir?" she asked one of the rangers who was wiping his sword on a dead Haradrim.

"Alive. He led the ambush himself," he replied. "He's over there, though I cannot say how pleased he will be to see you, lady."

"He is not my master," she returned, and went to find him.

Faramir was standing before a kneeling prisoner. A ranger had a knife pressed to his throat, and another was binding his hands behind his back.

"What do you know of the movements of Sauron?" Faramir asked him.

The man didn't reply, but his eyes darted about in terror.

"Where were you and your people headed?"

Again, the man made no answer.

"He doesn't understand you, Faramir," Tíniel said quietly. The prisoner's eyes flicked to her. They were pleading, desperate.

"Or he is wilfully silent," Faramir replied.

Tíniel stepped forward and spoke in an Eastern Harad dialect. "Who are you?"

"Bimbawe," the man answered in a shaking voice. "Please, woman, help me."

Faramir looked sidelong at her. "What does he say?"

"His name is Bimbawe," she said.

"Can you find out more?"

"Speaking might be easier for him if there was no knife at his throat," she told him pointedly.

Faramir hesitated, but then nodded once. The ranger with the knife stepped back, and Bimbawe visibly relaxed.

"What tribe do you belong to?" Tíniel asked him.

The kneeling man glanced sidelong at the road, where lay the remnants of his people. A tear escaped his eye. "Black Viper tribe," he said. "Our Captain is — was — Mordakil Fire-spear. We were many once."

Tíniel caught her breath. She had seen the Black Viper tribe when she had escaped Khand. She had met Mordakil, just before he'd led his people North — and to their death.

"Why are you in these parts?" she asked.

"We march on orders from the Master and his orcs. We had a mission South. This is the fastest route back to the Gate."

Tíniel turned to Faramir. "His tribe is from Eastern Harad. They had business for the Enemy in the South, and they were heading back to the Black Gate."

"What does he know of the Enemy's movements?" Faramir asked.

Tíniel looked back down at Bimbawe. "What forces does the Master have?"

"He has gathered thousands of Men to him," Bimbawe replied. "Haradrim, Easterlings, Khandi like you. But his orc army is…" he closed his eyes and shook his head. "They are fearsome. I know the white man wants information. I have none, but tell him this: if the Master is not destroyed, he will destroy everything."

Tíniel looked up at Faramir and shook her head. "He knows nothing we don't know already."

Faramir nodded soberly. "Very well," he said, and signalled to the ranger with the knife. Bimbawe's eyes widened, and he tried to get to his feet, panicked.

"Woman! I ask you, help —" he began, but he didn't finish before his throat was slit. Tíniel stared at him as his lifeblood spilled onto the ground.

She looked back up at Faramir, her eyes hard. He shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "We cannot afford prisoners, and we cannot let him go."

Tíniel looked back down at the sprawled body. Two rangers lifted it and carried it away. "He begged me for help, right before your man cut his throat. You should know that."

Faramir's mouth hardened into a straight line, but he made no response.

She shook her head. "Your father would be proud," she said, and walked away.

She had no wish to talk to anyone, but she'd only taken a few paces before one of the rangers intercepted her.

"Do you want for someone to escort you back to the caves, lady?" a ranger asked. It was the youth who had called her a good Southron.

"I think I know my way," she said abruptly. He looked taken aback, and she softened. "Thank you. What is your name?"

"Damrod, at your service," he said.

"I am Tíniel," she returned. "You needn't call me 'lady' here in the wilderness."

"Very well then," he said. "Tíniel. If you know your way, I'd best be off."

Tíniel glanced about and realised that all the other rangers had disappeared. "Where to?" she asked.

"Captain Faramir has called a meeting to question the intruders that were found this afternoon," he said.

She frowned. "More Haradrim? I thought Bimbawe was the only one left alive."

"Not Haradrim, lady — Tíniel. I'm not sure what they are."

"Take me there," she said. "If these _intruders_ are from the South, I may be needed."

She followed Damrod through the trees until they came to a large clearing by the river. About two hundred of the rangers of Ithilien were standing in a large semi-circle. In the middle of the huddle, Faramir was sitting cross-legged on the ground. And standing before him were Frodo and Sam.

Tíniel froze, her breath catching in her throat. As soon as she looked at them, she could feel _it_ — the presence of the Ring. It called to her from across the clearing, beckoning with a sickly sweetness that she knew all too well. But after a few moments passed, she let out her breath. She could feel the presence of the Ring, yes. But she hated it. It could entrance her no longer.

"So, you were a friend of Boromir's?" Faramir was saying. His gaze was hard.

Frodo hesitated, but then nodded. "Yes, I was his friend, for my part."

Faramir smiled grimly. "Then it would grieve you to learn that he is dead?"

"Indeed, I would grieve," Frodo returned cautiously. Then he caught the look in Faramir's eyes, and he faltered. "Dead? How can that be? Is this some kind of sick lie?"

"I would not lie even to an orc," Faramir said, "but I am not sure of _your_ honesty."

At that moment, Sam stepped forward. "See here, Captain!" he said, hands on his hips. Some of the rangers behind Faramir grinned; Tíniel's lips twitched too. "You have no right to keep us here! We're on a quest of our own, and every minute you keep us here, you help the Enemy along! He'd be mighty pleased, if he could see you now. Think he'd got a new friend, he would!"

"Patience," Faramir returned calmly. "I am commanded to kill all who step uninvited into these lands. And yet you are alive." Sam huffed and stepped back with a red face, and Faramir turned back to Frodo. "You claim you were one of a Company. Who else was in this Fellowship?"

"There was Boromir, as you seem to know," Frodo said. "Aragorn, the heir of Isildur, was one too." at this, a murmur rippled through the rangers.

Faramir remained unmoved. "Who else?"

"Gimli, a Dwarf of Erebor; Legolas, a prince of Mirkwood; there were two other hobbits — Halflings, I mean — and a wizard."

"A wizard, you say?" Faramir said. "And there was no one else?"

"For the last part of our journey together, there was a woman from Khand, named Tíniel."

The rangers stirred again, and many of them glanced toward her. She stepped into the semi-circle.

"And I will vouch for them," she said to Faramir. "He is Frodo Baggins of the Shire, and his companion is Sam Gamgee. He speaks the truth."

Faramir nodded. "I trust your word," he said, and got to his feet. "The Council is adjourned. Get the wounded to the caves to be tended. The rest of you, back in position. There will be more fighting before the sun sets."

As the men dispersed, Tíniel made her way over to Faramir and the Halflings. Sam regarded her warily, and Frodo's hand hovered near the hilt of his short sword.

"You have nothing to fear from me, my friends," she said to them. "I am sorry for the way that we parted, but glad to see you again."

Frodo didn't move. "How can I know for sure?" he asked.

She smiled sadly. "The Ring took Boromir from me," she said. "I swear on my life that it has no power over me now."

Faramir's drew in a sharp breath. "Isildur's Bane," he breathed. "This is the Halfling that carries it?"

Frodo drew Sting slightly from its scabbard, but Tíniel cut in. "You needn't fear Faramir either. He is Boromir's brother, the son of Denethor."

Sam looked up at her. "Is Boromir really dead?" he asked.

She nodded. "He died to save Merry and Pippin."

"And did he?" Frodo asked.

"No. But I don't know that they are dead. Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn were alive. I am sorry."

"So why did you leave them?"

She hesitated for a moment. "It was complicated," she said.

Sam shook his head. "And we all thought that you and Strider were really something," he said. "Just goes to show, Mr Frodo. You shouldn't count your chickens until they're hatched."

Tíniel nodded tightly. "Where are you headed?"

"To a secret passageway into Mordor," Frodo said. "But we have lost our guide."

She frowned. "Your guide?"

"There is much to be discussed," Faramir interrupted, "but you need to move out of the open. The fighting will begin again soon. The scouts have sighted an army of hundreds coming our way from the North."

"Let me fight with you," she said. "Boromir died on my watch. I don't want the same to happen to you."

Faramir hesitated, then called one of his rangers over. "Take the Halflings to the Window," he commanded. "Blindfold them, but remember they are our guests."

The hobbits looked fearfully up at Tíniel, and she nodded reassuringly. "You are safe here," she said. "Go with the men and get some rest."

Frodo impulsively threw his arms around her waist. "I am glad to see you too," he said. His voice was weary. "Thank you for all you've done for us today."

She knelt before him and took him by the shoulders. "I have done nothing for you," she said earnestly. "Now go. You can lay aside your burdens here for a little while, Frodo."

He nodded, and he and Sam were blindfolded and led away.

Tíniel straightened up and turned to Faramir. "So you will let me fight?"

"No," he said. "Not only do I fear for your safety, but you are a weakness."

She bristled. "A weakness?"

"My rangers hate Southrons. When they ambush a party, they don't see that they are killing Men. They see only the Enemy. But you… you sympathise with them. You were once one of them."

"Because they have no choice in the matter, Faramir!" she argued. "They are here against their will, and they do not deserve to die for it!"

"Perhaps you are right," he said. "But those are chances we cannot afford to take."

"And you?" she asked sharply. "Do you see them as Men? Or as monsters?"

Faramir sighed. "I don't like killing things," he said. "But I kill for a reason. This is war, Tíniel. I do what I must."

Tíniel looked down. "I will fight with you whether you will it or not," she said. "And I swear to you, if I see an enemy before me, I will kill him."

Faramir set his jaw. "Tíniel —"

"Whether you will it or not," she repeated, and his shoulders slumped.

"Fine. But if you have even the smallest of scratches on you, I'll kill you."

"So much for not liking killing," she muttered. Faramir's lips twitched.

"Let's go," he said.

* * *

The ambush was well planned. It was placed at a corner in the road where there were steep slopes either side of the path. The trees grew thickly, and it was among these that the rangers hid themselves. The army marching through would have no way to escape, and another tiny part of the Enemy's armies would be destroyed.

Faramir crouched beside her. He had no bow, but his sword was drawn; he would lead the rest of his men on foot to finish off those who escaped the arrows.

"Ready?" he whispered to her.

She looked sidelong at him. "Yes. Are you?"

He shrugged. "I hope so."

"I'm sorry for what I said earlier," she said. "About your father being proud."

"I'm sorry too. I wish everything could just go back to how it was."

She glanced at him in the failing light. "We're at war. Nothing will be like it was until there is peace."

"And even then, Boromir is gone."

"Yes."

They watched the sun sink below the horizon in silence, not moving until Damrod approached.

"Captain," he whispered. "My lady. They are near."

Faramir stood and quietly drew his sword. "Very well then. The men are ready?"

"Yes, Captain," Damrod replied. "But there is something else."

Faramir frowned. "What is it?"

"There are women and children among them, Captain."

Faramir looked at Tíniel, stricken. "We cannot…" he began. Then he turned back to Damrod. "Tell the men to make themselves visible at my command, bows drawn. Make sure they are surrounded to the back. We will speak to them at the front."

"Yes Captain," Damrod said.

"Make sure they know not to shoot unless I order it!" Faramir whisper-shouted after him.

Tíniel stood too and took a steadying breath. "You will need me to speak to them?" she asked.

"If you know their language, yes," Faramir said. "If you do not, then… I don't know what we will do."

"Let's go then," she said, and they descended the precarious slope to stand on the road together.

"Why would one of the Enemy's armies be marching South?" Tíniel said, her eyes fixed on the bend. "You said all the others coming through Ithilien head North to the Black Gate."

"I thought perhaps he was beginning to mobilise," Faramir replied, scanning the road before them in the failing light. "But women and children… now I'm not sure."

"Hush," she said. "They're coming."

She was right. The sound of a great number of people walking, and the hushed buzz of their talking was becoming audible. Then they rounded the corner, and Tíniel caught her breath.

"They are Khandi!" she said. "That isn't an army, it's a tribe!"

The people had seen her and Faramir standing on the road up ahead, and a cry went out. The people — Tíniel could now see more than a hundred, and more coming — all pulled up their _vadi_ to cover their faces, and drew their curved swords.

"Now!" Faramir shouted, and the rangers materialised from the trees above with arrows knocked and pointed at the Khandi. There was a moment of silence, then Tíniel stepped forward.

She drew her _mithiri_ , brandished it for all to see, then placed it on the ground before her. She did the same with her _vokhu_. Then she stepped over her blades and began walking toward the _bamyë._ Three of them detached from the group and came to meet her in the middle.

" _Khuma_ ," she said, and nodded at the man who was in front of the other two. "Are you the Khondyë?"

His eyes suddenly widened. With a trembling hand, he slowly reached up to unwind his _vadi_ and reveal his face. It was written over with disbelief and wonder, and to Tíniel it was shockingly familiar.

"Tcharum?" she whispered. The ground seemed to fall out from beneath her feet. The air seemed to thicken around her, and everything moved slowly.

Her long-lost brother put his left fist to his right shoulder in a salute. _"Khuma Khondyë_ ," he said.

* * *

 **The story has been leading to this point for so long, and here we are! Let me know what you thought of the chapter in the reviews, and I'll see you soon. Like and subscribe. Catchya.**

 **S**


	24. Torn Between

**24 — TORN BETWEEN**

* * *

Faramir had allowed the _bamyë_ to make a camp in Ithilien, out of sight of the road but nowhere near the Window. He hadn't been happy about her wanting to talk to her brother.

"He was after your blood last time you saw him," he said urgently.

"No, he was following orders," she said. "I am safe, Faramir. Safer among them than I would be anywhere else in the world."

He held her by the shoulders and looked at her hard. In his eyes was real fear — and a real threat. "If they lay a hand on you…"

She pulled away from him and gave him a glare. "Trust me, for once."

And so here she was, in the Khondyë's _patchi_. Everything was as she remembered: there was the low wooden table with cushions scattered around, and the lamp hung from the wooden beams of the _patchi._ The only difference was that outside the walls of the tent, there was woodland instead of desert.

Tcharum sat cross-legged opposite her, with Borund on his right. She couldn't look at them, not quite. It was all too much for one day.

"Tchakhura, are you… are you alright?" Borund asked, breaking the silence.

Tíniel smiled shakily. "Trying not to weep, really," she said. She glanced up at Tcharum. "I thought you were lost to me forever."

He returned the smile. "So did I," he said. Then he seemed to remember something and took a chain off from around his neck. "But Vadrë knew you would come back."

She frowned, and he handed it to her. It was the _hamarakhi_ her father had worn, embossed with the symbol of the Maruvikh Khondyë — the sword and the setting sun. She ran her thumb gently over the engraving, then looked back up.

"So it is true." she said. "Vadrë is dead."

Tcharum nodded. "We sang for him only last night."

She remembered the scene that she saw in Galadriel's Mirror, her father dead and bloodied, carried on a makeshift stretcher. It seemed that it had come to pass.

"How?" she asked.

"There was a raid," Borund said, "against a company of Dwarves. We left the mothers and children alive, and for that mistake they executed Robekh Khondyë." He shook his head, his eyes troubled. "Brutally."

"For that, we will fight for Mekakhond no longer. Unless you command it," Tcharum said. "The _bamyë_ would take death over that dishonour."

"I do not command it," Tíniel said. "He is the Enemy above all enemies. I will have no part in his war except to fight against him." She looked down at the _hamarakhi_ , the silver circle emblazoned with the shook her head. I am afraid to wear the _hamarakhi_ ," she confessed. "I have been gone for years. I betrayed the _bamyë_."

"It is yours by right," Borund said.

"Put it on," Tcharum urged her. "You are Khondyë, sister. The gods have returned you to us, and you must do your duty to the tribe. _Tcharand bamyë, tcharand khopyë_."

Tíniel ducked her head and put the _hamarakhi_ around her neck, then tucked it underneath her tunic. She felt powerful, and some small part of her believed that the last five years hadn't all been for nothing. She looked back up at her brother and her friend.

"You cannot know how good it feels to be back," she said.

Tcharum tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace and he began to cry. "Why did you take so long, Tchakhura?" he asked, his voice a strangled whisper.

A lump rose in her throat and she shook her head as the tears came. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry, Tcharum."

"Me too," he said. He leaned over and, after five years of being apart, they embraced. He smelled like smoke and sweat and home, Tíniel thought. She couldn't stop crying, and she buried her face in his shoulder. Then he pulled back, and she turned to Borund. He was crying too.

"I missed you, stupid woman," he said.

"I missed you too," she sniffed, and he hugged her tightly. It made her head reel to think that this was really happening. She'd imagined it so many times that now it barely felt real — but Borund was really _here_ , solid in her arms. Without warning, Aragorn's face flashed into her mind. She pulled away from Borund and wiped her face.

"There is so much I have to tell you," she said.

"And we you," Tcharum said. "But I think you'd better start, and from the beginning. We last saw you in the City of Corsairs, leaping onto a ship of armed men. We thought they had surely killed you, and yet here you sit. What happened?"

She shook her head and smiled. "Fate was with me. They were not pirates," she said. "Well, at least not in the way you'd expect. They took me in. They taught me the language of the Northmen and gave me a place and a purpose. I was with them for seven months, I think."

"And they did not…" Borund hesitated. "Your honour was not…"

She glanced at him. In the emotions of seeing him and Tcharum again, of coming home to the _bamyë_ , she had almost forgotten that he was to be her husband. "None of them touched me," she said. "Some wanted to, but others protected me. And I protected myself."

"Of course you did," Borund said. His voice was fond, but there was relief in his eyes. Tíniel thought briefly of the kiss she had given Aragorn, and her jaw tightened.

"Why did you leave them then?" Tcharum asked. "They gave you a place, took care of you."

"We were captured by soldiers of Gondor," she said. "They burned our ship and put us in a… a cage. In the stone buildings of the Northmen there are rooms that are used to imprison men. We were in one of those."

Borund shook his head darkly. "Pursued by Gondor even when you leave Khand," he muttered. Tíniel winced. She didn't know how much he'd like it when she got to the part about how she'd lived in that very kingdom — and by choice.

"So they let you out of the cage?" Tcharum asked.

"They let me out, to question me. They beat me when I did not tell them what they wanted to know, but their captain took pity on me and brought me to the great city of Gondor."

"Took pity on you?" Tcharum frowned.

She smiled. "Northmen are strange. For them, there is dishonour in fighting a woman."

"So why did they beat you in the first place?"

"They thought I was a boy," she said. Borund snorted and she swatted his arm.

"And so you were a prisoner in a Gondorian city," Tcharum said darkly. From his voice, Tíniel knew that he'd realised the implications.

"I did try to escape, but I could not," she said quietly. "One time, I tried to die. I failed, and never tried again. It was the first betrayal. I became a _khaviga_ in Minas Tirith."

"Why?" Borund asked. His voice was not accusatory.

She shrugged. "I cannot say for sure. I wanted to die. At least, I thought I did. Or maybe I thought it was my duty, and what I really wanted was just to survive. But whatever the reason, I failed my duty. And I lived."

" _First for life,_ " Tcharum said quietly. She nodded.

"The people of Gondor were… not what I thought. I expected monsters and found men. They were strange, certainly, and ignorant; they didn't know about the tribes of Khand before I told them of it. That's why they attacked us without need."

"They thought they were attacking a nation of millions," Borund said in realisation. "They thought they were attacking Khand, not just the lands of the Maruvikh."

"I do not forgive them," Tcharum said harshly. "Nothing will ever make me forgive them. And do not think I don't know what you're saying, Tchakhura. You lived among our greatest enemies, by your own free will."

"There is only one Enemy now," she replied sharply, then she softened. "But I did not forgive them either, at least at first. Then I was alone, and afraid. I found good in them."

"So… you have forgiven them now?" Borund asked.

She sighed. "I cannot explain it. The Northmen have strange ways, strange ways of seeing things. I think I have forgiven them now, as a people. But I cannot forget." Tcharum nodded tightly and she went on. "Minas Tirith is the name of their city. It is huge, built of white stone on a mountain as high as those in the stories of Akhund. The two sons of the… the Khondyë of Gondor became my friends. The elder died not two weeks ago. The younger is the leader of the men here. His name is Faramir." She spoke quickly so they didn't notice the tremor in her voice when she mentioned Boromir.

" _Varamir_ ," Borund attempted. "He is your friend?"

"He is as a brother to me."

At this, Tcharum looked down. "And now you have come here with him?"

"No. I left Minas Tirith months ago and travelled North. I saw lands of green, mountains covered in ice, half-sized men and men who live forever. I met their queen, in a wood where the trees were taller than ten mûmakil. I floated down a great river in a small boat. Then came the second betrayal."

"For gold," Borund said. She nodded sombrely.

"Boromir," she murmured. "He was the brother of Faramir, and he… he called for my help. But I did not go to him, for instead I was trying to take the golden ring of Mekakhond."

"How did he die?" Tcharum asked gently.

"Orcs," she said, feeling the horrible pang in her heart. Not nearly enough time had passed for her to be able to talk about it easily. "Four arrows in his chest. He did not suffer long."

"Gods carry him gently," Borund said.

"Then I came here," she finished. "I arrived this morning, and found Faramir. Then I found you."

"That is impossible," Tcharum said. "How is it that by chance you found your Northman friend and your _bamyë_ in one day? These things happen only in stories."

"They happen by the will of the gods too," she said, smiling wryly. "Here is the difficult part of my tale. You both know that the prophecy was sent through Akhund, but it was sent by the _Hamariag_ , the gods. There is some purpose they have for me, though I do not know what it is. They speak to me."

"They _speak_ to you?" Borund said incredulously.

"They send me messages by my dreams. That is why I knew to come East. That is how I knew that Vadrë was dead. I sang for him, even before he died. I do not lie."

She showed them the fresh scar on her palm. Tcharum shook his head in wonder.

"To lie is forbidden," he said. "My sister comes back to me, and I find she has not only become one of the Northmen, but she is a messenger of the _hamariag_."

Tíniel frowned. "I am Khandi. I am Maruvikh, not a Northman."

Borund shifted uncomfortably. "You have befriended them," he said. "You speak their language, know their ways. You fight beside them. You call them your brothers. If you betrayed one of them, then you were dearest in their hearts."

Tíniel looked down and did not reply.

"I heard the white man call you something," Tcharum said. "What was it?"

"Tíniel," she answered quietly. "It is the name they gave me."

"So what is your name?" he asked. There was uncertainty in his voice now. "Tchakhura or Tíniel? Khandi or Gondorian? Who are you?"

She met his eyes, unable to answer truthfully. Because truthfully, she did not know. What if there was no truth? But there had to be, she thought. There was always truth. There was always something beneath all the layers that she could hold onto. What was it?

A voice outside the _patchi_ saved her from answering. " _Khuma_ _Khondyë_!"

Borund and Tcharum both looked at her expectantly, and she realised she was the one who had to answer.

"Enter," she called. The flap was lifted, and Petakh came inside. She saluted with her left fist to her right shoulder. Tíniel returned it.

"Khondyë, a group of Northmen have come to the camp. They are speaking to us, but we don't understand them. Should we send them away, or do you wish to see them?"

Tíniel hesitated, then nodded. "Bring them here," she said. "To tell them, say the word ' _come_ '."

" _Come_ ," Petakh repeated carefully. She turned to leave but paused at the doorway. "Khondyë… I know we haven't always seen eye to eye," she said. Tíniel raised her eyebrows. She supposed having a number of knives hurled at her head could qualify as not seeing eye to eye. "But you are Khondyë now," Petakh went on. "I am loyal to you until the day I day. _Tcharand bamyë, tcharand khopyë._ Will you forgive me?"

"You tried to kill me because you were loyal to Robekh Khondyë," Tíniel said. "Loyalty is rewarded, not punished. There is nothing to forgive."

Petakh nodded her thanks. " _Khuma_ ," she said, and ducked out.

"You lead better than anyone I've ever met," Tcharum said with admiration. "You always have."

"I did what anyone would have done, leader or not. She did nothing wrong."

"Our father would have punished her if he were in your position."

"Well," she said grimly. "Our father was not a _khaviga_."

"No," Tcharum said. "Gods carry him gently."

"It is good to see her again," she said. "It's true that she never used to like me, though. Neither did Viatchond. Is he still —"

"He is dead," Borund said tersely. "Killed in a raid."

"Gods carry him gently," she muttered. Then she frowned. "A raid for Mekakhond?"

Borund nodded. "Soon after we returned from hunting you all those years ago, we marched North at Mekakhond's command. Mostly he had us raiding small camps North of Mordor. Villages, the Northmen call them. We hated it, for they were mostly defenceless and had no way to fight back."

"Why did you bring the mothers and the children of the _bamyë_?" she asked.

"It was too dangerous to leave them in Khand with no defence from Gondor's raids," Tcharum explained. "Vadrë decided there was less risk in bringing them, though it was a nightmare having them in Mordor, and they slow us down."

"And since he was killed, you've been marching South," she finished for them. Tcharum nodded.

"We swore no oath to him. He kept us there by fear alone, but after they killed Vadrë…" he shook his head. "I will have death sooner than dishonour, as I said."

"You did well, Tcharum," she said. "You made the right choice. We will go home now. It is the only place left to us, though he will find us there."

He looked up at her, five years of unspoken words in his eyes. "Thank the gods you're back," was all he said.

" _Khuma_ _Khondyë_!" came Petakh's voice from outside.

"Enter," Tíniel called, and Petakh led Faramir inside.

"Do you want me to stay, Khondyë?" Petakh asked. "In case this one causes any trouble?"

Tíniel shook her head. "I think you've scared the poor man enough already," she said. "Will you wait outside?"

Petakh grinned and ducked out of the _patchi_ , leaving Faramir standing alone by the door. Borund and Tcharum stood, and Tcharum indicated unsmilingly that Faramir should sit on the cushions. Tíniel fought back a smile.

"You don't need to intimidate him, you know," she said in Khandi. "He's my friend."

"An intimidated Gondorian is better than a confident one," Borund said. "He is a very strange man. Tall, but skinny."

Faramir sat gingerly and glanced behind him at the two men standing and watching him. He looked back at her. "What are they saying, Tíniel?"

"My name is Tchakhura here," she said, ignoring his question. It felt good to be on the other side of things for once, the one who understood what was going on. "Welcome to my camp."

Faramir regarded her quizzically. "Thank you?"

She smiled wryly. "And I thank you for letting us stay in Ithilien."

He nodded. "Your people are welcome here." There was a pause, then he spoke again. "So why are they marching South?"

"Our Khondyë was executed by orcs for showing mercy," she said. "This brought dishonour upon us. We have abandoned Sauron, even if we die for it."

Faramir frowned. "And why are there women and children with you?"

"It was too dangerous to leave them behind in Khand, defenceless against Gondor's raids," she said.

He shook his head, suddenly incredulous. "Tíniel, it's me. It's Faramir, your brother — by blood, as you said yourself. Why are you treating me like a stranger?"

She frowned. "A stranger?"

"You've only spent an hour with these people, yet suddenly you're one of them again," he said. His voice was rising. "Suddenly it's us against you. Suddenly you're no longer Tíniel. Suddenly Gondor is your enemy. Have you forgotten everything that's happened? Have you forgotten who you _are_?"

Borund shifted behind Faramir, but Tíniel ignored them. "I haven't forgotten who I am," she said coldly, feeling the weight of the _hamarakhi_ around her neck. "But I have remembered. These are _my_ people. They speak _my_ language. Forgive me for using my own name and forgive me for not forgetting the decades of slaughter that _your_ people wrought on _mine_. I have a duty to do here. I am the chief of these people, and every one of them is loyal to me. Forgive me for being loyal to them!"

"Loyal isn't trying to execute you for a prophecy," Faramir snapped. "Loyal isn't forcing you to flee your homeland for something you haven't even done!"

"You are a Northman," she said tightly. "I can't expect you to understand our ways."

"You're right," he said angrily. "I don't understand why anyone could persecute an innocent, proclaim their hatred of that innocent, exile that innocent — and then make them chief the next time they see them. How stupid of me!"

"Have you come here to insult me?" Tíniel asked quietly.

He laughed darkly. "No. I came to make sure you were alright. Clearly you're fine."

"Clearly," she returned shortly.

"But I'm glad I came," he went on. His voice was ice. "I am glad I could see you like this, as you really are. I'm glad I could see that Boromir died for nothing. It's better that I know."

Tíniel stared at him, her fury too much for words. She looked behind to Tcharum and Borund. "Take him out," she said. "Take him to the edge of the camp and make sure that he leaves." She turned back to Faramir and spoke in Westron. "You needn't come back, Faramir. We will be gone soon."

Faramir grunted as he was seized by her men. "I may be a Northman," he spat over his shoulder, "but I keep my promises. Do you remember the oath you swore me?"

And then he was gone.

Alone in the patchi, Tíniel took a deep breath and tried to stop the waves of anger pulsing through her. Faramir was wrong; Boromir hadn't died for nothing. He'd died for the purpose of the gods. She had to believe that. But why was he so angry? She was with her _bamyë_. She was where she belonged. But did she really belong there? Even her own brother had called her a Northerner. Who was she? A spell of dizziness swept over her. She blinked, and she was dreaming.

 _She was in a cave. There was an eerily still pool to her left, and it reflected the strange, twisted shapes of the stalactites that hung down to its surface. The stones glittered in the light of torches that were hung in brackets set in the stone._

 _Tíniel looked behind her. There were hundreds of women, small children and old men sitting between the stones, their faces shadowed with fear and their golden hair turned fiery in the torchlight. Éowyn stood before them, her eyes fixed on the wooden door that protected the cave from whatever was outside. Tíniel went to it and pushed it open._

 _It led out onto a high parapet at the top of a stone wall. Before the wall was gathered a great force, thousands upon thousands of howling, shrieking orcs. Tíniel looked along the wall to her right. Legolas and Gimli were there, and Aragorn beside them, but none of them saw her._

 _She looked to her left and saw only Éomer. He stared straight at her, terrified. "Help us," he pleaded._

 _Then he was gone, and she was standing in the pouring rain in the City of Corsairs. Borund was before her, the rain tracking down his face and dripping from his nose. He looked at her searchingly._

" _Give me your word," he said. "If we meet again someday, and things are different, promise me you will come back to us."_

 _She felt herself nod, and he disappeared._

 _The rain had stopped, and she was before the gates of Minas Tirith, preparing to leave. Faramir embraced her, then stepped back. "Swear you will return," he said. She knew the the oath she would swear even before she heard herself say the words._

" _If I am alive, I will return to Minas Tirith."_

The first thing she saw when she woke was Borund's concerned face hovering above hers.

"Tchakhura," he said. "Are you alright?"

She rolled over onto all fours and threw up. Borund crouched beside her, and when the vomiting stopped, he handed her a flask of water. She sat down heavily and drank, trying to wash the taste out of her mouth. There was a buzzing in her ears, and she felt thoroughly sick. The feeling of doom was weighing her down, and she closed her eyes briefly. It could only mean one thing; the last betrayal was coming.

"What did the white man say to you?" Borund asked. She looked up labouredly.

"The white man?"

"Varamir."

"Oh. He… gave me bad news."

Borund, to his credit, didn't push the matter. "We are with you," he said.

She sighed. "I don't know what to do," she said heavily. "I don't know. The gods have given me a choice, and both options mean betrayal."

"You don't mean…"

"Yes."

"To follow what heart has told," Borund said. "The last betrayal."

She felt like screaming, or crying. Or both. "Would you let me alone a moment, Borund?"

"Yes, of course. I…" he shook his head. "Of course. _Khuma._ "

" _Khuma_ ," she whispered, and he left.

She sat in the still silence of the empty _patchi_ , staring at the light of the flickering lamp. So, here I am, she thought. The final trial is ahead of me.

She didn't feel ready. Barely ten days had passed since the second betrayal, and though she had lost much, she had gained so much. She had Faramir back. She had her _bamyë_ and _khopyë_ back. And now she stood to lose it all.

This betrayal was different from the other two. Both of them had been choices, yes. Both of them she had sensed were coming. But this time there was a different kind of choice. She knew her options. She knew exactly what she would lose.

She had sworn two oaths. One to Faramir, that she would go back to Minas Tirith, and the other to Borund, that she would go back to Khand. No matter what she decided, a promise would be broken. Someone would be betrayed.

But who? The dearest to her heart, the prophecy said. But this betrayal was different. She had to choose who the dearest was, and go with the other. Maybe neither was dearer to her. Or maybe she loved them both equally. It hardly mattered now, she reflected dully. The prophecy had to be fulfilled. She had to choose.

"Help me," she whispered to the gods. There was no stir of wind, no sign, nothing. "Please," she said. "Please."

She wanted to be angry. She wanted to rage, to yell and hit something. But she simply couldn't. She wanted to cry, but she just sat there feeling empty.

"Let me sleep," she said hollowly. "Let me sleep and dream, and talk to him. I need to talk to Aragorn. He'll know what I should do. Please, let me dream of him."

She squeezed her eyes shut, but nothing happened. When she opened them, she was still in the _patchi_ , alone.

"If you take everyone from me," she whispered, "who can I fight for? What will I die for? Why should I live?"

Still, there was silence. Decide for yourself, Tchakhura Khondyë, she thought. Do as your heart has told. But what was her heart telling her?

Her thoughts were interrupted when Tcharum came into the _patchi_.

"Tchakhura," he said. "I'm sorry I didn't ask for entry. Borund told me you were sick."

"I was," she said quietly. "The gods sent a message to me."

Tcharum sat down beside her, wide-eyed. "What did they say?"

"That I must make a choice," she said sadly. "A terrible choice. The last betrayal."

He stared at her for a moment, then nodded jerkily. "I see."

"You don't like that your sister is a _khaviga_ ," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Of course I don't," he said. "But I believe it isn't your fault."

"It is _all_ my fault," she replied emptily. "That's the point."

"Then it is fate," he said firmly. "What must be will be."

"And if I choose to leave you?" she asked, watching him carefully. He looked up quickly, a shadow of apprehension in his eyes.

"Tchakhura… I trust your judgement. I trust _you_. But please," he said, his voice cracking, "don't leave me again. You don't know what it's been like. I know I never told you before, but I will tell you now. I need you. Borund needs you, the _bamyë_ needs you. You are stronger than us; you survived in the West, alone. But I am weak, sister. I need my _khopyë_ , and you are all I have left of it. Please don't go."

"And if I have no choice?"

"If you had no choice, it wouldn't be a betrayal," he said. He'd never been stupid. "Choose as you will. But… well. Now you know what I think."

Tíniel looked down at her hands. They were trembling ever so slightly at the prospect of what she was about to do.

"I've made my decision," she said. She got to her feet and squared her shoulders. "I need to go to Faramir."

* * *

 **I was going back through some of the earlier chapters last week and discovered an embarrassing number of typos. If you're reading and you notice a mistake (spelling, grammar, anything bad), please just let me know, because I refuse to be pulled under by the deadly undercurrent that is Incorrect English Usage! I know, I'm Aussie and most of us don't know how to speak properly — let alone write — but help me out.**

 **Also please, please, please review so that I feel loved. Let me know if I'm doing a good job. Or a bad job. I'd rather know than continue on blindly thinking that the story's decent... But seriously. I love my reviewers. Review, and I will love you too. See you soon!**

 **S**


	25. East or West

**25 — EAST OR WEST**

* * *

Faramir sat cross-legged on his sleeping mat, his head in his hands. He couldn't believe himself. He'd always prided himself on his level-headedness, thought himself clever. Now, he couldn't believe his own selfish stupidity, and he hated himself for what he'd said to Tíniel.

She'd rediscovered her friends and family, her own people, and he'd been so jealous, so _afraid_ to lose her, that he'd lashed out and pushed her away. He'd always known that she'd had a home before Gondor, but the moment he'd been faced with that reality, he couldn't handle it. He was furious at himself.

He wanted to go back. He wanted to apologise, but her brother and the guards had made very sure that he'd left the camp, and he doubted that he'd get let back in. He had ruined everything.

A knock at his door roused him from his misery.

"Who's there?" he called, without getting up. It opened fractionally, and he caught his breath. It was Tíniel.

"Is it alright if I... can I come in?" she asked cautiously.

He scrambled to his feet and pulled it open for her. "Of course," he said. She entered, her face drawn.

"Tíniel," he said fervently, closing the door behind her. "Can you forgive me? I behaved like a fool before. I spoke out of fear."

"I want to apologise too," she said quietly. "I shouldn't have said the things I did."

"I just…" he sighed and took her hands in his, relief flooding him. "It felt like you were leaving. And I know you're not, I know that you are loyal to Minas Tirith, but I just…" he shook his head. "I panicked. And I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she said stiffly, and pulled her hands away from his. "You were right."

He stood there, suddenly frozen in place. "What?" he whispered.

"I am leaving. I will take the _bamyë_ back to our traditional lands."

He shook his head. Surely, he thought, this couldn't be happening. "Tíniel, I told you, I didn't mean what I said before!"

"Well you should have meant it," she said dully, "because it was true."

"No," he said, and the anger and despair he'd been feeling before rushed back in. "Tíniel, you're being a damned fool!"

"Tell Frodo and Sam that I am sorry, but I had to go."

He ignored her words, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her. "Listen to me. You cannot leave. You _must_ not leave. You have a duty to Minas Tirith, to my father. To _me_ , and to Boromir, who died for _your_ mistake!"

Her jaw tightened, but she was silent. He pushed her back roughly, turned and smacked his fist against the stone wall. " _Damn_ you, Tíniel!"

"I'm sorry," she said, not meeting his eyes. "I've always tried to be loyal. Keep my vows. _Tcharand bamyë, tcharand khopyë._ But now I've made too many." She looked up sadly. "And now one of them has to break."

"The last betrayal," he said, realising. He almost reached out to her, but fury made him cold. "And I am the one who suffers."

"Can you not see that I suffer too?" Tíniel said, the pain suddenly evident in her voice. "Can you not see that this prophecy has — has torn me apart?"

"Then don't make this choice," he said feverishly. "Stay here. Boromir is gone, Tíniel, I need you with me."

She shook her head. "There are others who need me more. I have chosen."

A single tear trickled down his cheek. He'd lost her, and he knew it. "Find a way," he begged, hating how desperate his voice sounded. "Find a way to keep your promises. _Please_."

Her face contorted, but she didn't cry. "No. It's the choice that matters. But once I've made it…" she shook her head. "I'll be free, Faramir. Don't you see?"

He nodded minutely. "I understand," he said. "And the price you pay is saying goodbye to the North. Giving up hope of ever seeing Minas Tirith, Anita, Ingold, the guards or your friends from the Fellowship again. You'll… you'll never see Aragorn again. You'll never see _me_ again."

She let out a long breath. "I knew I would never see Aragorn again when I said goodbye to him," she said. "It's you I don't want to leave."

"Then don't," he said despairingly. "Stay."

With trembling hands, she took a silver necklace from around her neck and handed it to him. "This was given to me by the Lady Galadriel," she said. "It belongs to a leader of Minas Tirith. Do what you will with it." She took a few steps backward, toward the door. "Farewell, brother," she whispered. Then she quietly opened the door and slipped out, her footsteps fading down the passageway.

Faramir stood unmoving for a moment, staring at the silver medallion in his hands. It was engraved with the tree and stars of Gondor. He sat down heavily on his mat and put his head back in his hands.

"Farewell, little sister," he whispered.

* * *

The rangers of Ithilien merely nodded to Tchakhura as she left their caves and stumbled away into the night. She couldn't return their acknowledgement; her head was spinning too fast. _The Good Southron_ , she thought. That's what they thought she was. But in truth, there was nothing good about her. She brought pain and death wherever she went. Some part of her wanted to dwell in her misery, but the rest of her had realised something was very wrong. Her mind and her body were beginning to shut down.

She barely looked up at the calls of " _Khuma Khondyë_!" when she reached the camp. Her heart was beating increasingly fast, and her breathing was uneven. She needed to get to her _patchi_ before she collapsed. She focussed on putting one foot in front of the other, though the effort was becoming monumental.

 _Khaviga_ , whispered a voice from the darkest part of her mind.

"No," she whispered weakly in reply. Relief washed over her when, on the edge of her darkening vision, she saw her _patchi_.

No doom dream came that night, or the night after, but Tchakhura felt like a ghost, as though she was living some kind of half-life. Nevertheless, she led her people South, beginning the long march back to Khand.

On the third night, Tchakhura felt frighteningly weak. She was sat at the fire in the centre of the camp, surrounded by children that hung on her every word.

"Bigger than twenty mumakil?" one asked.

"Bigger," she nodded, making her eyes wide.

"Bigger than a hundred?" another breathed, and she grinned, trying to ignore the black spots growing in her vision.

"Well, some of them were. In the tongue of the Northmen, they are called _mountains_."

The children muttered amongst themselves, rolling the word around their mouths until it was bastardised and sounded something like _mor-tas._

"Bigger than a _thousand_ mumakil!" one of them crowed, and suddenly they were off, shrieking and chasing each other around the fire. Tchakhura shut her eyes in the moment of peace, trying to regain control of herself, but she was soon interrupted again.

" _Khuma Khondyë_ ," said a young man, saluting her. Tchakhura opened her eyes and merely smiled, not trusting her strength enough to return the salute.

" _Khuma_ ," she replied. Something about him was familiar. "I know you."

He ducked his head, almost bashful. "You spoke to me once or twice. I was a lot younger when you were last with us, though."

"Mugura," she said. "Is that right?"

He grinned widely. "Yes, Khondyë."

She returned the smile, ignoring the splitting pain behind her eyes. "Why don't you sit with me?" He sat eagerly beside her, and she handed him some of her bread. She couldn't stomach it anyway. "I remember they brought you on the hunt for me to the City of Corsairs," she said.

He flinched. "I – I am sorry, Khondyë. I thought you were a _khaviga_ , and we were ordered –"

"Hush. It isn't your fault, boy. And in any case, I might not have been a _khaviga_ then, but I am one now."

"Oh," was all he managed to say. He looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"It was my fate to become one," she said, feeling the need to justify herself. "The prophecy is the will of the _Hamariag_ , and there is no way I could have avoided it. But it doesn't change the fact that I have betrayed."

"Yes, Khondyë," he said. "But –"

A sudden spasm of pain had shot through her body, and she hissed through her teeth, hunching over.

"Khondyë?" Mugura said apprehensively.

"I'm fine," she ground out through clenched teeth. "But I think I should – I should go rest. Help me up?"

He was on his feet in an instant, offering his hand. She took it, and he pulled her up. She swayed on her feet, a wave of dizziness overcoming her.

"I'll be alright, boy," she said to Mugura. "We'll talk another time, yes?"

"Yes, Khondyë," he said. "You're sure you don't need help?"

She shook her head. "I'll be alright. You go and find more food. _Khuma._ " With that, she turned and walked unsteadily toward her _patchi._ It was finally happening, she could feel it: she was losing the sliver of control she retained over the past few days. Her body was beginning to shake from head to toe. She could hardly see, and there was a roaring in her ears.

She was so close, almost at her door, but before she could reach her tent she stumbled and almost fell, her head reeling and her whole body weak. She should have hit the ground hard, but a pair of strong arms caught her and held her up.

"Khondyë!" came Petakh's voice, and Tchakhura managed to focus her vision enough to see her _variagura_ looking down at her concernedly.

"Get my brother," she rasped. Quickly, Petakh pulled her into the _patchi_ and lay her down on the cushions. She grabbed a water skin and poured its contents over Tchakhura's face. The water was soothing, but only for a moment.

"My brother!" Tchakhura gasped, "Where is my brother?"

But Petakh shook her head, her eyes wide with worry. "Khondyë, I don't understand," she said. "You aren't speaking Khandi!"

Tchakhura groaned as a spasm shuddered through her body. "Find Tcharum," she bit out, switching languages. "Bring him – bring him here, please. Quickly…" The darkness ebbed again and she almost lost consciousness.

"I will be back as soon as I can," Petakh said, her face a picture of fear in Tchakhura's flickering vision.

Tchakhura collapsed back on the cushions, physically exhausted. It felt like she was dying. There was pain, confusion, fear, but also the beckoning embrace of the warm darkness that wanted to take her. Another spasm racked her body, and she groaned in pain.

It was her body's reaction, she knew. She'd done things she'd never been meant for: she had betrayed – not once, not twice, but three times, and the old Tchakhura that had once lived in that body couldn't handle it.

But she'd also done things that mortals were never meant for. She'd become some kind of vessel for the gods' will, some kind of instrument to enact their plans on Middle Earth, and it was taking its toll. Her back arched as yet another spasm of pain shot through her, and she cried out. The agony overwhelmed her, and she slipped into the darkness.

 _She could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing. There was nothing. She was nothing. But she knew she had been in this place before; it was the great void, the empty nothingness that the gods had shown her after the second betrayal._

" _It is done," she said. Her voice sounded muffled in the immeasurable nothingness. "The prophecy is fulfilled. It is done."_

No, _came the reply. She didn't hear the voice. She felt it – knew it._

" _Fleeing from hate and hiding from fear," she said. Before her, a scene unfolded: a variagura galloping hard away from a Khandi camp, vadi fluttering in the wind behind her. She knew it was watching herself from the past._

" _Betrayer of those I hold most dear."_

 _A series of faces flashed before her: Tcharum, Borund, Boromir, Faramir… and Aragorn._

" _First for life…" she whispered._

 _She saw herself with a knife pointed at her own heart, then she saw Boromir leap forward and knock it from her hands._

" _Next for gold."_

 _She saw herself knee high in the Anduin River, watching Frodo and Sam float away. She heard the blast of Boromir's horn, but she didn't move._

" _And last to follow what heart has told," she finished mournfully. Faramir drifted into view, sitting cross-legged on his sleeping mat, clutching the hamarakhi she had given him. His head was down, and his shoulders were shaking as he cried._

" _It is in the past now," she whispered, her voice void of emotion._

No, _the reply came again, and suddenly the nothingness was filled with a whirlwind of images. She saw the desert. A forest. A mountain range. Minas Tirith. The desert. The sea._

Light to be in a darkness unseen, _said the voice. She saw Aragorn sitting alone, keeping watch at night over his friends. His expression was troubled, and he looked weary. She wanted to reach out to him, but before she could move, he was swept away._

Part of two worlds, yet torn between. _Aragorn was replaced by two other men: Tcharum and Faramir, staring at each other warily, their hands on the hilts of their swords._

The greatest will be, despite hatred and scorn, _the voice continued,_ the lowest among you, the Khondyë's firstborn.

 _She watched herself standing before the doors of the throne room in Minas Tirith. She was not alone, but she was unable to make out the faces of the people standing around her. Around her neck were two hamarakhu._

This is all to come, _the voice boomed in her conscience._ The prophecy is not yet fulfilled.

 _This left her with more questions than answers, but in a heartbeat, she had left the nothingness behind, and she was floating in the ocean. She knew what happened now, and her chest constricted. She didn't want to watch, but she couldn't look away. Her father was the first to disappear into the darkness below. Then Boromir sank, and she watched him helplessly. Then Borund fell in beside her and was pulled under. He didn't struggle this time; nor did he look afraid. He simply watched her sadly until she could see him no more._

 _She blinked, and she was standing on the great wall of stone, watching the army of thousands march toward her, intent on destroying her and all that stood with her. She looked to her right, and saw Éomer standing there, reaching for her._

" _Help us," he said. She reached to take his hand, but just as she brushed his fingers, he dissolved, and Aragorn was there instead. Although she'd half convinced herself that she'd left him behind, her heart leapt to see him again._

" _Where do your allegiances lie?" he asked her. His voice was gentle, and she shivered to hear it. She wanted to touch him, wanted to talk to him, but his expression turned serious._

" _Tchakhura," he said urgently. "Where does your loyalty lie?" She opened her mouth to reply, but he spoke again before she could. "Tchakhura. Tchakhura…"_

"Tchakhura!" her brother said, shaking her gently by the shoulders. She jerked awake, and shot up into a sitting position, fighting the wave of nausea that crashed over her. Tcharum's arm kept her steady, and she held onto it, breathing hard.

"What happened?" he asked.

"A dream," she said shakily. "A dream from – from the gods."

"You were unconscious," he said, "not sleeping. You were muttering too, things that made no sense, and parts of – of the prophecy."

She nodded, trying to hold herself together, but then her face crumpled and she began to weep. "Tcharum…"

"Oh, my sister," he said, holding her tightly and rocking back and forth soothingly. "Do not cry, Tchakhura. I am here."

"It – it breaks me," she sobbed, the words barely comprehensible through the tears. "Every time, it breaks me more, and now I am truly nothing."

"Hush," he said softly, but she went on.

"I used to be Tchakhura Makhyë of Khand. I used to be Tíniel of Gondor…" she drew in a shuddering breath. "Look at me now. Nobody of Nowhere."

"No," he said, stroking her hair. "No. You are still my sister."

"You said it yourself," she choked out. "I was more – more Northern than Khandi. But now I have – have thrown away that part of myself too."

Her frantic despair was subsiding into empty misery. She clung to her brother, her head pressed to his chest.

"It happened, then," he ventured cautiously. "The final betrayal." Her lack of reply was answer enough, and he held her tighter. "Then I thank the gods you are still with us."

"We should go home," she whispered.

"Yes."

"But I cannot."

He pulled back. "What?"

She sat up straight and wiped her face roughly, trying to pull herself together. "I can't go back to Khand. I have a feeling that… well, something is wrong."

"And that's enough to keep us away?" he said incredulously.

"Yes," she returned. "I know things, Tcharum, even if I don't know how I know them." She sniffed again. "And I know that my path does not lie to the East."

"Tchakhura, we have nowhere left to go but home."

"I won't go back," she said with certainty. "At least not yet."

He shook his head. "You keep saying that. _I_ cannot. _My_ path. _I_ won't go. You've forgotten that you're more than yourself now, sister. There is no more _I,_ no more _me._ You are a tribe. You are _us_. Wherever you go, the _bamyë_ must follow."

"I saw a friend in my dream," she told him, changing tact. She remembered the terror on Éomer's face. "He was a Northman that I met some years ago. He was about to be attacked by a terrible army of thousands of orcs. He asked for my help."

Tcharum frowned. "Do you know where he is?"

"No, but I do believe I must find him."

"So you mean to go, in spite of the _bamyë._ "

"I… I don't know yet," she said.

"Tchakhura, that is betrayal. The prophecy is done, there is no excuse for disloyalty now."

"I know," she snapped. Then the anger left her, and she sighed. "There is something more that I saw." She hesitated, looking down at her hands. They were still shaking. "I saw Vadrë and Boromir sink into the ocean. It meant that they had died."

Tcharum narrowed his eyes, knowing her well enough to know that there was more to what she was saying. "And?"

"And," she said heavily, "I saw Borund sinking too."

He didn't react immediately, rubbing his hand across his beard. "You are sure that this means…"

"He is the only one that I saw sinking who still lives. I don't think it can mean anything else."

Tcharum sighed heavily and closed his eyes. "I wish you hadn't told me that."

She looked down, feeling guilty. "I was weary of carrying it alone."

He reached out and took one of her hands. "Sorry. I know. It's just… there's so little I can do to change fate. But if I could, I would give my life for his."

"Going West is as inescapable for me as death is for Borund," she said quietly. "It is my fate. I have to go."

Tcharum shook his head. "But you know as well as I that you can't just forsake the _bamyë_."

Carefully, she drew the _hamarakhi_ out from under her tunic. It glinted in her palm, and she held it out to Tcharum. "Then I name you Khondyë," she said. "Take them home."

He almost laughed. "You know that it doesn't work like that."

She smiled ruefully and tucked the medallion back where it belonged. "If only something could be easy for a change."

He sighed. "Do you remember when things used to be simple?" he asked. "When we knew what our duty was, and we did it?"

"Barely," she said. "You were a lot less annoying then."

"Hm. Not true."

She grinned. "Alright. You've always been this pigheaded."

"I learned from the best," he shot back. "My wonderful big sister."

Her smile faded. "The Khondyë's firstborn," she said. They sat in sombre silence for a moment. Then she shook her head. "Northmen would drink on a night like this."

"Drink?"

"Alcohol."

"Ah. That must be why they're so bad at fighting."

"You know, I once fought a crew of pirates that were absolutely blind drunk," she said. "It was an experience to remember."

Tcharum smiled, but there was a touch of pain in it now. "You love the North," he said. It wasn't a question. "You love the people you have here. You've made memories here."

It was the truth, and Tchakhura shrugged. "It will never replace our home. But yes."

"My head tells me to follow you," he said, "to try to love what you've come to love, see what you see in these places. But my heart just wants the desert."

"I understand," she said gently. "It took me years, and I had little choice. And don't you ever think that any place but Khand will be my true home, even if I never have the chance to return. You are my _khopyë_ , and nothing will change that." Tcharum met her eyes and nodded. She smiled grimly. "I think I know what I need to do," she said.

* * *

They continued their journey South the next day. The travelling Maruvikh _bamyë_ was truly a sight to behold: thousands of red- and brown-clad warriors, many with folded-up _patchu_ on their backs. The children found sticks on the ground to use as play swords, duelling each other to the death – or until one poked the other too hard. The mothers, babies strapped to their chests, sang marching songs that marked their steps, and the _variag_ joined in.

Tchakhura walked among them, as she had the past days. Today felt good; the doom dream had come and gone, and now she felt strong, finally in control of herself. She sang the marching songs with her people, fought off the children with a stick, carried firewood on her back for the camp they would make at night. It felt good. She loved her people, and it truly seemed that they returned her love. But she knew it couldn't last.

As the sun set in the evening, she chose a place where the trees were sparse enough for them to camp. Borund set down the Khondyë's _patchi_ with a groan.

"That thing," he said darkly, "feels light when you pick it up in the morning. But hour by hour, it grows heavier, until you're carrying around a mûmak."

"That's why I make you do it," Tchakhura said. "You need the training."

He snorted. "If we come across enemies in the near future, I'll be sure to tell them that it's thanks to you and your _patchi_ that my fighting is so improved."

She smiled and moved to help him unfold it and set it up. "I'll take it tomorrow if you like."

"Don't be silly," he said. "Anyway, I heard there might not _be_ a tomorrow. Tcharum said you have something planned?"

Her smile faded. "I've called a gathering of the tribe," she said. "Tonight. There is something I must tell you all. I must give you a choice."

Borund stretched the skin tight and tied it off, leaving a flap loose for the doorway. "I'll choose to stay with you," he said simply. Tchakhura stared at him for a moment, and he looked up and paused. "What?"

"How do you always know what to say?" she asked. "Most of the time you talk like an idiot, but whenever it matters, you always tell me just what I need to hear. You always know when I don't want to talk. You always make me see what is right."

He grinned. "You forget that I've known you for a long time, Khondyë," he said. "Do you know, I remember the day you and Tcharum were born. I think I must have been about six years old. I was allowed to come and see you, with my mother. Tcharum was lying there sleeping, quiet and peaceful, but you were squealing. Your little face was red and your eyes were screwed shut."

"Typical of me."

"Yes. And my mother chose that moment to tell me that I had to marry you as soon as you were old enough."

She laughed. "Poor little Borund," she said. "Not much for a future bride!"

"Well, I wasn't very impressed," he said. "But the point is, she also told me that you were mine to protect. We were promised by law, and so by law you were my _khopyë_."

"And so you looked after me," she finished softly, coming to stand before him, her hands on her hips. "I don't know what I did to deserve you, Borund."

"Nor I you," he replied. "You've done just as much taking care of me."

She looked down and bit her lip. "Without the prophecy, she said, "if I'd never left… we could have had such a good life."

"No regrets," he replied, taking one of her hands in both of his. "We still can."

He couldn't know about the extra complication, she knew. He never would. The thorn in her side, the one thing that above all else drew her gaze back North. The man that she had loved in a way that certainly wasn't Khandi.

"Perhaps," was all she said. He caught the hesitation in her eyes and dropped her hand gently.

"We still have time," he said quietly. "You're back now. We have all the time in the world."

She nodded and smiled, hoping that it was enough to cover the memories in her eyes. "Would you gather the tribe for me? I will be at the fire in an hour."

"Of course," he said, and gave a short salute with his lopsided smile. "I'll see you there."

The children were the first to greet her when she began to make her way to the fire.

" _Khuma Khondyë!_ " they called, one after the other, comical in their efforts to salute. One little girl, no more than three or four, fell over trying to keep up with the others. Tchakhura scooped her up and sat her on her shoulders.

"Into battle!" she cried, and she was echoed by the war cries of the two dozen children swarming around her.

That was how she walked into the fire circle: with a giggling child perched on her shoulders and surrounded by a horde of skipping, shouting children. She couldn't help smiling.

"Go to your mothers!" she told them, lifting the little girl down and letting her run away. The children disappeared into the expectant crowd, and Tchakhura stepped up onto the trunk of a fallen tree so they could better see her. Tcharum and Borund stood to her left, and Petakh and another _variag_ on her right.

" _Khuma Maruvikh bamyë!"_ she cried.

" _Khuma Khondyë!_ " rumbled the reply, the voices of thousands combined as one.

She took a deep breath, trying to quell her nervousness, and pushed her shoulders back. "I have called you to tell you of a great matter," she began, speaking as loudly as she could. She could hear whispers as what she said was relayed to the people too far away to hear. "I am going to tell you of the will of the gods!"

Whispers rippled outward again, and she glanced back at Tcharum. He nodded his encouragement, and she went on.

"The _Hamariag_ have spoken to me through visions," she called. "They have ordered me to journey West, further into the lands of the Northmen." This time the whispers were mixed with mutterings. She paid them no heed and pressed on.

"My path, my fate, lies in the West. Tomorrow I will march with any that will follow, to find that fate. But now, I offer you a choice." She looked out at the hundreds of upturned, firelit faces, watching her expectantly. "I am not the Khondyë you deserve," she said, the smallest falter becoming evident in her voice. "I left the Maruvikh for five years. By my free decisions, I became a _khaviga_. And now I march not closer, but further from home."

She paused, looking down at the fire. This was the moment, she thought. The moment where she would either gain or lose everything. "The lands to the West are not the lands of the Khandi," she said. "They are dangerous to us, unfriendly, unwelcoming. It has been my honour to serve as you Khondyë, but now I advise you all: take a new Khondyë and go home without me." The faces turned toward her were grave now, and as the whispers died out, Tchakhura steeled herself. "I ask you now for your decision."

There was a heartbeat of silence, then the _bamyë_ began to mutter, families turning to each other to discuss their options. Tchakhura stood quietly and waited for the noise to dwindle. When it did, she drew in a deep breath. Though she seemed calm, her heart was racing.

"Who will speak?" she asked.

For a moment, there was utter stillness; then, to her surprise, Petakh stepped forward. Tchakhura's stomach dropped, but she nodded permission for the woman to speak. Petakh cleared her throat and faced the crowd.

"The Khondyë is a _khaviga_ ," she said. "The oldest, most sacred laws of our people reject betrayal, and our leader is one who has thrice betrayed." She turned back to look at Tchakhura, who met her gaze evenly. "But these betrayals were the will of the gods, and not even a Khondyë can escape that."

Tchakhura looked up sharply, hardly believing what she had heard. Murmurs rippled once more through the tribe, and Petakh continued.

"Our Khondyë betrayed, but she betrayed because it was what the _Hamariag_ had decreed. And I would be a fool not to follow someone who has had courage enough to do that." She lifted her chin and raised her voice still more. "I do not care for betrayal anymore, I care for courage. And our Khondyë dares to do what no Khondyë has done before! She would lead her _bamyë_ into the land of the Northmen, because she has courage! She would follow the commands of the _Hamariag_ , no matter how difficult, because she has courage!" She glanced back at Tchakhura again, her eyes fierce. "Tchakhura Khondyë has led us only three days, but I have witnessed a leader that is loved, a leader that is wise and that puts her people before her. You may each make your own choices tonight, but for me, there is no choice." Petakh turned and stood facing Tchakhura. "I will follow courage!" she cried. She knelt and pressed her fist to her shoulder in salute. " _Tcharand bamyë, tcharand khopyë! Khuma Tchakhura Khondyë!_ "

Borund stepped forward and knelt by Petakh, his eyes expressing more than words could say. " _Khuma Tchakhura Khondyë!_ ' he echoed. Tcharum did likewise, kneeling and saluting.

"I am with you to the end, sister," he said. " _Khuma Tchakhura Khondyë!_ "

Tchakhura looked back out at the eerily silent sea of faces. For a moment, not one of them moved. Then, almost as if a wave had swept through them, the _bamyë_ of thousands got to their feet.

" _Khuma Tchakhura Khondyë! Khuma Tchakhura Khondyë!"_ she heard, as they kneeled before her. It was deafening, awe-inspiring.

An onlooker would have been struck to see the scene before them: a lone woman standing on a tree stump before an army of kneeling people. Tchakhura's wonder was no less. _Tcharand bamyë, tcharand khopyë_ , she thought. You have been loyal to me, and I will be loyal to you.

" _Khuma_ ," she whispered.

* * *

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 **S**


	26. The Battle of the Hornburg

**26 — THE BATTLE OF THE HORNBURG**

* * *

Tchakhura decided she would take her people to Rohan.

At first glance, it was a terrible decision. On her brief visits to Edoras, the Rohirrim had hated her, called her an Easterling and blamed her people for the death of Eorl the Young, their king who had died generations back.

But she was just going to have to hope that they wouldn't attack the _bamyë_ at first sight, because Rohan was her only lead. Éomer's terrified face had been recurring in her dreams recently. He'd asked for her help, and she could only assume that the gods intended her to help him. And where else would Éomer be but Rohan?

Still, as the _bamyë_ marched North, Tchakhura couldn't help but doubt her decision. What if it was a horrible mistake, to take the Maruvikh into the lands of Northmen? And if there was a battle – what about the mothers and children? They could be left away from the battle, but if the _variag_ were destroyed, there would be nobody left to protect them. What then?

"Stop it," Tcharum said.

She frowned. "What?"

"You're thinking too loudly."

"That's ridiculous. You're ridiculous."

"Stop doubting every decision you have ever made."

She rolled her eyes. "Hard not to when they are highly questionable decisions."

"The _bamyë_ had a choice, and every single one of them chose to follow you. The only person in the entire tribe who lacks confidence in the Khondyë is the Khondyë."

She turned to him and gave him a hard look. "What do you think, then? How do you judge the situation? We're very, _very_ far from home. We've abandoned Mekakhond, who is quite the dangerous being to abandon. We're marching a literal army of thousands, plus vulnerable mothers and children – _babies_ – through what is technically enemy territory. We're absolutely impossible to miss. What are your thoughts?"

Tcharum grinned. "You paint a very bleak picture," he replied. "But here is how I see it: if we went home, we would face certain death, and most likely torture, at the hands of Mekakhond and his servants. If we continue into the West, we only face probable death."

"Certain death against probable death then," she said, shaking her head.

"Exactly. I prefer the latter."

"Trust you to grin at the thought of likely demise."

"Khondyë!" Petakh called from behind. "Shall I call a rest? It's midday."

"Good idea," Tchakhura replied. "But we will rest for an hour only. We need to move as quickly as we can."

The _bamyë_ ground to a halt. Packs were set on the ground, food and water passed around. Tchakhura sat on the grass with a sigh.

"We will have to cross the Anduin tomorrow," she said. "It's going to be a nightmare."

"Is the Anduin the great river to the West?" Tcharum asked. She nodded. "We'll manage," he went on. "We have made it this far. A little water won't stop us now."

He got up and went over to talk to Borund, and Tchakhura closed her eyes in the moment of peace that followed. Time to herself was rare these days. She should have appreciated her days travelling alone more, she reflected.

" _Khuma Khondyë!"_ came a voice, and she opened her eyes. It was Mugura.

" _Khuma_ ," she replied with a smile. "You found me again."

"I did," he said bashfully. "You promised the other night that we could talk more, and I did want to, but your brother was here and – and I didn't want to interrupt."

She hid her smile. "Are you afraid of Tcharum?"

He wouldn't lie, but he hesitated. "A little."

"But you are not afraid of me?"

"No, Khondyë. You are not frightening."

She frowned, not sure if this was good or bad, but she was saved from responding by the arrival of Petakh.

" _Khuma Khondyë_ ," she said. "May I join you?"

Tchakhura gestured to the grass next to her. "Please." Since Petakh's declaration of loyalty a few days ago, the two women had become closer. Tchakhura found that she had more in common with Petakh than she had ever cared to admit. "Mugura and I were just discussing how I'm not frightening."

Petakh folded a piece of meat into some bread and tore off a chunk of it with her teeth. "No, you're not," she agreed with her mouth full. "You like to be liked too much."

"I like you, Khondyë," Mugura added helpfully.

Tchakhura laughed. "Apparently I need to take lessons from Tcharum."

"That reminds me," Petakh said. "I want to take lessons from you."

She frowned. "In how to frighten people? I don't think I'm the right person to teach you."

"No," Petakh replied. "Lessons in the speech of the Northmen. If we are going to get anywhere with this expedition West, there needs to be more than one among us who can communicate with them."

Tchakhura nodded slowly. "You're right," she said. "But who would be willing to learn?"

"Me," Petakh said. Tchakhura blinked, mildly surprised at how ready she was to embrace the outside world.

"Me too!" Mugura said, not to be left out. "And I could find others."

"Well," Tchakhura said, "I do not know where to start. The language of Northmen is called _Westron_ , and it is… strange. There is no straightforward way to say anything, like in Khandi."

"What do you mean?" Petakh asked, frowning.

"In Khandi, we say 'Come here'. In Westron they say 'Would you mind coming over here for a moment?'" She hesitated. "I suppose you could just say "come here". But it's rude, sometimes. We just… we tend to be a lot more direct."

Petakh and Mugura stared, and she shook her head. "I am just going to teach you the names for things. That surely couldn't be hard."

"Right," Mugura said eagerly. "How do they say _patchi_ in Westron?"

Tchakhura opened and shut her mouth like a fish. "There – there is no way to say it."

"What about _vadi_?" Petakh asked, tugging at her own.

She shook her head. "They do not have them in the North."

" _Hamarakhi_?" Mugura tried again.

Tchakhura let out a frustrated sigh. "Alright, _I_ will choose the words! We can start simply. The word for _Khondyë_ in Westron is _chief_."

" _Tchiv_ ," Petakh and Mugura said together.

"No. _Chief_."

" _Tchiv_."

" _Ffff,"_ Tchakhura said. "Can you make that sound?"

' _Vvvv,_ " they said together.

" _Ffff_."

" _Vvvv_."

"Forget it," she said. " _Tchiv_ sounds close enough anyway. Now say _tribe_."

Their Westron lessons continued for the rest of the day. They learned while they marched, and by the end of the day, Petakh and Mugura had made surprisingly good progress. Tchakhura wondered if it would have been as easy for her if she'd had a teacher who spoke Khandi.

" _Khuma_ , _tchiv_!" Mugura called when they made camp at night.

" _Khuma_ ," Tchakhura smiled, then in Westron: "Good night, boy!"

* * *

Aragorn stared out over the bulwark of Helm's Deep. In terms of defence, the fortress was the best he'd ever seen. With a good army to hold it, it would be all but impenetrable. The problem was, he didn't have a good army.

The Rohirrim had been coming here for months, since the attacks on them by the Uruk-hai had begun. The stream of people from Edoras were simply the latest arrivals. Aragorn had been down to the caves, seen the supplies piled in the storerooms. In a place like this, a people could survive months under siege. But he didn't have a good army.

"Aragorn," came Legolas' voice. Aragorn turned quickly, snapping out of his thoughts. He could never hear the Elf approaching, and it frustrated him to no end.

"Legolas," he said. "What news?"

"Only half of the scouts have returned. They speak of an army of terror, marching from Isengard. They will be upon us soon."

"Did they make a count?" he asked, not wanting to hear the answer.

"Ten thousand at the least. They are mostly Uruk-hai, but there are also orcs, orc-men and Wild Men of Dunland," Legolas replied. His countenance, usually serene and imperturbable, was grim. "You should leave us."

Aragorn frowned, unsure if he had heard his friend correctly. "Leave?"

Legolas nodded. "The Men of Middle Earth need a king, and the blood of Isildur dies with you. If you are killed, there is nothing."

Aragorn looked down. "So what you're saying is that we're going to die here." Legolas didn't reply, looking out over the ramparts instead. Aragorn sighed. "If I leave, I might as well be king of nothing," he said. "But taking the throne is not my goal, Legolas. My goal is to defeat the Enemy. If I achieve that…" he trailed off, looking out into the distance again. The deep would have been impassable with a good army to defend it, but he didn't have a good army. Now it just felt like a corner they had gone to die.

"We stand with a rabble of boys and old men, armed with rusty spears and old armour," Legolas said quietly, a shadow of horror underlying his words. "We number barely three thousand. We are few, they are many. We are weak, they are strong. We want to live, but they want to kill. Of course we are going to die."

Aragorn didn't know what to say. He was a Man; he had long since accepted his mortality. But for Legolas… the battle at Helm's Deep would be his eternity ended, his infinity cut short. Death meant different things to Elves and Men.

"You are not the first Elf to fight the darkness," he said, looking at his friend sympathetically. "If you die, you will not be the first. Nor will you be the last."

"Go, Aragorn," Legolas urged him. There was darkness in his eyes. "Go and live, to lead the Men into the light. Do not stay here to die in this trap."

"I'm going to fight here," he replied softly. "If I die, I die. It will be a death well-deserved, in any case."

Legolas caught his arm. "Why do you speak so?" he asked, disturbed.

"I am tired, I suppose," Aragorn replied, trying to smile. As usual Legolas saw straight through his effort.

"Go and sleep," he said. "There is time still before the battle begins. Better to die well rested, I think."

Aragorn tried to laugh at the weak joke. "I would, but there is too much to do. The Enemy doesn't rest, so neither can I."

* * *

It took them a long, painstaking day to get over the river. Tcharum and Borund had scouted a place where it was wide enough to ford on foot, and over many hours the thousands-strong _bamyë_ had made their way across. Tchakhura herself had done several trips, carrying packs on her head to keep them dry. Twice she'd carried someone's children.

It was becoming something of a joke among the Maruvikh; Robekh Khondyë, the twins' father, had never liked children, and had been a leader who inspired more fear than love. Tchakhura was proving the opposite.

"Perhaps you should be meaner," Borund said a few days later, as he almost fell over a toddler who had run up to the head of the march to offer Tchakhura a crushed flower he had picked for her. "A well-meant kick or two might do more good than harm, get them to leave you alone for a moment."

Petakh snorted. "I think you're just jealous of how much the children like her," she said to Borund. "It must be hard, being so unlovable."

He scowled good-naturedly. "And look what you've done to Petakh," he said, still speaking to Tchakhura. "She used to be so nice and serious. Now she makes more jokes than Tcharum does."

"I don't think it was a joke," Tchakhura said gravely. Petakh nodded in agreement.

"Enough of this, then," Borund huffed. "I am going to join your brother at the rear, where I won't be attacked by five-year-old children and the hurtful comments of my betrothed."

Tchakhura grinned and waved him off. He simply turned his back and left them, but she could see his smile.

"You're lucky to have him," Petakh said. "He's a kind man."

"He is," she agreed.

"When will you be married?"

Tchakhura shrugged. "I do not yet know. It was supposed to happen three years ago. But now… there are more important things to think about."

Petakh nodded. "I suppose so."

Tchakhura looked at her curiously. "Did you marry? I remember you were supposed to, but my father was reluctant to let you out of the guard."

She smiled. "I did marry. His name is Vagura."

"Mugura's brother?"

"Yes, older by ten years. He is a good man. Serious, but very kind."

"But you are still in the guard."

Petakh shrugged. "I have not yet had any children."

There was something in her voice that made Tchakhura narrow her eyes. "Petakh…"

The woman looked up at her, trepidation written across her face. "Yes, I am pregnant."

Tchakhura tried not to show her surprise. "I see."

"Vagura does not yet know. And I don't want to tell him, for he will make me leave the guard, and I just – I cannot _not_ fight in a time like this. I am needed."

"Of course he will pull you from the guard," Tchakhura said. "And if your husband does not, I will. A mother cannot continue as a _variagura_ , Petakh."

The other woman clenched her jaw. "I can still fight," she said. "I may be with child, but I am still stronger, faster than the others. It is a bad Law."

"I know you are strong," Tchakhura said. "But it isn't for the mothers' sake that the Law exists. It is for the children."

For a moment they walked on in silence, but then Petakh nodded shortly.

"You'll still be in my war council," Tchakhura said gently. Petakh looked up at her, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. "And once the child is born, I'll allow you to fight again," Tchakhura went on.

"What?" Petakh breathed.

"It's something I have been thinking about for a time now. Like you said, we need every sword we have. Every mother that is willing, I will allow to become a _variagura_ again."

"It goes against the Law," Petakh said.

Tchakhura shrugged. "Like you said, it's a bad Law. You have all followed me this far. Why not a little further? Now," she said, holding out her arms. "Come here and hug me."

Petakh frowned. "I… what?"

"You are with child! The _Hamariag_ have blessed you! This calls for joy!"

Grinning bashfully, Petakh hugged Tchakhura. They released each other when they were interrupted by two boys of about seven.

" _Khuma Khondyë!_ " they chirped in unison.

" _Khuma_ , my friends!" she replied. "What can I do for you?"

"We would like to know something," one of them said breathlessly.

"When will we see a Northman?" the other finished for him.

Tchakhura hesitated, looking across the grassy plains, lit orange by the setting sun. They were well into Rohan by now. She had expected to be challenged by guards, or at least watched from afar by farmers. But they had seen nobody. The two villages they'd passed through had been empty.

"I cannot say," she told them honestly. "But keep watching. Should you see any horses in the distance, I want to be the first to know!"

"Yes, Khondyë!" they replied, and ran back to tell their friends their findings.

"Maybe it is better we haven't been discovered by Northmen yet," Petakh said. "More likely than not they will be violent toward us."

"True," Tchakhura conceded. "But the sooner we find them, the better. Something is very wrong here, that these lands should be so empty. If I just recognised the place I saw in my dreams, I'd know where we need to go, but…" she shook her head in frustration.

Petakh opened her mouth to reply, but she was prevented from doing so by a cry from Borund.

"Khondyë!" he bellowed, sprinting as fast as his legs would carry him past the long train of people. "Khondyë! A band of riders, approaching from the South! Hundreds!" He drew level with her and stopped, bending double in an effort to regain his breath.

"At last!" she breathed. "Are they carrying any banners?"

Borund shook his head, still panting hard. "You do not… understand," he gasped. "They are… charging us… with spears!"

Tchakhura's heart stopped. She turned to face the South. In the distance, she could see the riders approaching at a gallop, their lances levelled and ready to tear through the _bamyë_.

"No," she whispered. Then, without warning, she took off.

She sprinted toward the horses. She had to get to them before it was too late. Her people were here as allies, but the Rohirrim saw only the Khandi colours – the marker of their enemy. She had to save her tribe.

"STOP!" she shouted, not slowing her pace. She was close enough now to distinguish the riders from the cloud of dust they stirred up in the fading light. "Stop, _please_!"

There was no way they were going to hear her over the thunder of their hooves, she realised. Cold, hard hopelessness settled in her stomach. She would die, and her people would be massacred, and her attempt at peace with the Northmen would fail. But she had to try.

She held up her hands as she sprinted, desperately trying to show she was unarmed. "Stop!" she cried. "We are here in peace! _Westu hal_! Please, stop!"

The horses didn't slow their pace. Tchakhura was close enough now to make out the individual riders, to see their faces beneath their helms, and to see the points of the spears that were about to run her through. She slowed to a stop, closed her eyes and waited. She felt numb, empty; but strangely peaceful. She was ready, she thought dimly. At last, it would all end.

But no spear found her heart. Wind whipped around her, and the thunder of hooves was ear-splintering, but she was alive. Her heart racing, she opened her eyes and found herself surrounded by a circle of mounted riders, each with their spear pointed at her.

Thinking quickly, she held up her hands again. " _Westu hal!_ " she said, still short of breath. "My people and I come not as enemies. I beg you, do not harm them!"

The rider that seemed to be their leader raised his spear and removed his helmet. "Lady Tíniel of Gondor," he said. "It is indeed you!"

"I –" Tchakhura frowned. "How do you know me?"

He laughed. "My name is Erkenbrand, Marshal of the West Mark. I remember your time in Edoras, with Lord Boromir."

She narrowed her eyes, suddenly suspicious. "I see by your face and armour that you are indeed of Rohan," she said. "But Théodred, the king's son, is Marshal of the West Mark."

The smile dropped from Erkenbrand's face. "Théodred was mortally wounded in a skirmish at the Fords of Isen," he said darkly. "He passed."

"Well met, then, Marshal," she said, deciding to accept his explanation. "I grieve to hear of the prince's death. But what other news in Rohan? For we have marched through these lands for days and seen nobody."

"You first," he said, dismounting and coming to stand before her. He seemed old for a soldier, but he held himself well and his eyes were hard. "You are the trespasser here. What of you, and these people with you?"

She hesitated. "It's a long story. But this is my tribe, and I have brought them here as Rohan's allies. I know all is not well here. I will bring them to Éomer – and to the king – to help in whatever way we can."

Erkenbrand surveyed the _bamyë_ over her shoulder. "Truly?"

"Truly."

"How many are you?"

"Three and a half thousand who can fight," she said. "Four at a stretch. The rest are mothers and children."

He shook his head in wonder. "The greatest of chances has brought us together today, Lady Tíniel. My éored rides to Helm's Deep, where an army of evil has laid siege to the remnants of my people. Will you march with us?"

Tchakhura nodded without hesitation, realising that Helm's Deep must have been the place she saw in her doom dream. "How far is it?"

"Perhaps ten hours march by foot. We were on our way, but my scouts saw you and we diverted our path to cut you off."

"Then we have no time to lose, if we are to break the siege," Tchakhura said. "The mothers and children of my tribe must stay here. I will leave two hundred soldiers for their defence. But the rest of my army is with you."

Erkenbrand grinned, moving back to his horse. "You have brought us hope, Tíniel of Gondor," he said. "You have given us a light in the long darkness. If the battle is not already ended, perhaps we may end it victorious."

"Wait," she said, puzzled. "What do you mean, already ended? If the battle has begun already, why are you not yet there?"

"We did not know of it until a few hours ago," he replied. "My men and I have been in the West Mark. But the wizard Gandalf found us and told us of the attack. He rides with us."

Tchakhura tilted her head, sure she had misheard. "I beg your pardon?"

"Gandalf Stormcrow," Erkenbrand repeated, gesturing behind him as he mounted his horse again. "He is a man of strange ways, but he has done much good for our king, and he brought us news of the battle."

Tchakhura stared as an old man bearing a staff made his way through the circle of horses. Her eyes widening, she drew her sword and pointed it in his direction. "No closer!" she hissed. "What black magic is this?"

He smiled slightly and removed his hat. "No black magic, I am happy to say," he said.

She shook her head, her blood pounding in her ears. "You fell," she breathed. "They told me. I saw it myself. You are _dead_."

His smile widened. "The Valar have more to do than send you dreams, Khondyë," he said. "They sent me back. My task in this place was not quite complete."

She lowered her sword slightly, still suspicious. "Truly?"

"We are wasting time," Erkenbrand called. "We need to leave now, lady. We will march through the night. Are you with us?'

"Let me tell my tribe," she said, tearing her eyes away from Gandalf. "We are with you."

* * *

Aragorn was exhausted. His limbs felt heavy and numb, protesting every time he moved. His feet burned from standing for hours on end. His eyes stung, and the effort of moving nearly brought him to tears. But he had to go on.

Legolas and Gimli were still alive. He clung to that, though there was little else to offer hope. Théoden was despairing. The women and children in the caves were terrified, the Rohirrim on the walls no less. They were tired, burnt out by the horrors they had witnessed and the exertion of battle. They had lost countless men. But it continued.

The orcs had destroyed a good portion of the Deeping Wall, and now they poured in. Aragorn watched helplessly as they forced Gimli, and Éomer into the Caves in retreat.

"Retreat," he muttered to himself. "The keep. I need to go to the keep…"

"Aragorn!" Legolas bellowed. "Fall back! Get to the keep!"

Aragorn blinked and looked about him; the vast majority of their forces had dropped back, and the enemy army was swarming forward. He tightened his grip on his sword. His head swam with the effort, and his wearied body took over, numbly going through the actions of killing and maiming. Some part of him knew he should have been more awake, more aware; the other part wondered how long he'd have to keep living for.

Somehow Legolas had fought his way over to Aragorn, and now they stood back to back, an island in the sea of orcs.

"Wake up!" Legolas shouted over the clash of blades. "I need you here, Aragorn!"

Aragorn gritted his teeth and drove his sword into the chest of the orc opposite him. "I know. I know," he shouted back. "I'm sorry."

"Twenty-nine," Legolas replied.

Aragorn grimaced, cutting off a Dunlending's head. "What?"

"Thirty! I am counting to prove that I can –" he cut off for a moment. "– I can kill more than Gimli! Thirty-one."

Aragorn slashed at a new orc. "Of all the pig-headed –" stab "– conceited –" parry "self-obsessed Elves –" he impaled the orc in the throat. " _You_ are the one I get stuck with."

"Good to have you back, my friend," Legolas yelled. "Thirty-two! Let us leave this place!"

Together, they fought their way up the staircase and through the doors, slamming them shut and bolting them.

Théoden was there, standing among his generals, his face stricken. He looked to Aragorn. "It is lost," he said, his voice void of hope. Aragorn strode forward and clapped him on the shoulder.

"You are not dead yet!" he said, filled with a wild, reckless energy. "Where are your horses? Join me, and meet the enemy face to face! Find your horses! One final charge!" He glanced back at Legolas, who gave him a nod of approval. He remembered his friend's words earlier – _of course we are going to die_. Well, now is the moment, he thought.

He mounted his horse and took a deep breath, shaking off the heaviness and fatigue. Now to death, and to glory. The doors opened, and they charged. The night was still black, and thick clouds covered the stars. But on the Eastern horizon, Aragorn could make out a line of silver. It was dawn, he realised. A horn sounded.

There was an éored behind the masses of orcs, he realised, and his heart soared. The horses leapt down the hill, smashing through the flank of Saruman's army. And behind the horses…

He squinted. They were infantry, but of no army that he recognised; they were too far away for him to make out. It hardly mattered; they were saved. " _Forth Eorlingas!_ " he cried, his voice mingling with those of the Rohirrim around him as he urged his horse onward. His mind was sharp again, his head clear. He had hope.

* * *

Tchakhura picked her way through the battlefield. It was littered with the corpses of the huge Uruk-hai, each one wearing armour that was emblazoned with a white handprint. The battle had turned quickly once they had arrived. They'd had the element of surprise, and the orcs hadn't been able to form ranks quickly enough to stop them.

The few who had survived had fled into the trees nearby, but Tchakhura supposed they had found no safety there: screams of pain and terror echoed out of the dark wood.

The _bamyë_ had escaped relatively unscathed. She herself had been wounded in her upper arm, but it was a shallow cut that she had quickly sewed and bound herself. She prodded at the bandage gently, wincing a little.

"Are you injured?" Borund asked, coming to stand beside her.

"Barely," she replied, indicating the cut. "You?"

"Even less than you," he said, gesturing to a line of red on his shoulder. "Hardly a scratch."

"How many did we lose?" she asked.

"More than seventy," he replied, his voice losing its joviality. "Not many, considering. But enough."

She nodded sombrely. "Gather them, once your wound is seen to. We will sing for them tonight."

He nodded. "My wound is fine. I'll do it now. _Khuma_."

"As you say," she replied. " _Khuma_."

"Tchakhura!" came a voice, and she turned to see her brother. He looked tired, but no worse for wear. "Glad to see you alive," he said. "What now?"

"Borund will see to it that the dead are gathered to be burned," she said. "I want you and Petakh to come with me, into the… the great stone place. It's time to meet some Northmen."

"Gods save us," Tcharum muttered. "Let's go."

* * *

 **Wowee. I've had an absolute cracker of a week and am dead on my feet, so I hope this chapter isn't too much of a miss. Fun fact, I got attacked by a wombat on the weekend, not kidding. Those things are solid, bloody hell.  
But despite my minor wombat-induced injuries, I present to you a chapter. Thanks a mill as usual to my gorgeous reviewers – let me know how the chapter goes down and I'll send you another as soon as I'm through these bloody exams. Shout out to the new followers and favouriters too. You beauty.**

 **Affectionately yours,  
S**


	27. The Road to Isengard

**27 — THE ROAD TO ISENGARD**

* * *

Éomer met them on the causeway, and wrapped Tchakhura up in an enthusiastic bear hug.

"Damn it all, but it's good to see you again," he said. "You came at the very moment, saved us from certain death! I hope you weren't hoping for a quiet life, because you're famous now. The men talk of nothing but the fierce Queen from the East. All bow before her sword!"

"I have no doubt that you exaggerate," she said, matching his smile. "But I am glad to see you too! I hear you have become first in line to Rohan's throne."

Éomer ducked his head, his eyes darkening. "By foul circumstance, I am. The king, and all of us, still grieve Théodred's death."

"How is your uncle?" she asked.

He brightened. "Much improved, since you last saw him. Improved beyond hope! Gandalf Stormcrow drove out the evil that was in his mind, and now he has become the great king he was before."

Tchakhura's smile tightened at the mention of the wizard, but she didn't press it. "And your sister?"

"She is well. She was in the Glittering Caves with the women and children during the battle, but now she is out and waiting for you with the others."

She frowned. "Who are these others?"

"My uncle, Théoden King. A few lords. The Marshal Erkenbrand you know, I think. Gandalf is there, and a few of our allies. And who are your bodyguards?" he asked, looking back to Petakh and Tcharum.

"The woman is my guard, one of my best fighters. The man is my brother."

"Well met," Éomer said to them. Neither of them made any response, and she laughed.

"They don't speak the Common Tongue," she explained.

"I speak little," Petakh interjected indignantly.

"I see," Éomer said, smiling gallantly at her.

Tchakhura rolled her eyes. "She's married, by the way," she said dryly.

"Well, you'd best follow me," he replied, his eyes twinkling. "We cannot keep the lords waiting!"

They picked their way through the widespread devastation, up the causeway and through the shattered gateway into the deep. It was impressive, on the other side of the Deeping Wall; everything was built into the grey stone and designed for defence. Tcharum shook his head.

"Impressive," he said. "Maybe Northmen aren't as stupid as they seem."

"If only we could say the same for you," Tchakhura returned.

The courtyard had been cleared of bodies and debris and now served as a place for the wounded. There were fewer than twenty beds, so most of the injured men were lying on blankets on the ground. Tchakhura turned to Éomer.

"Might our wounded be brought here too? We have limited supplies to treat them with."

He shrugged. "Were it up to me, you could. But you will have to ask my uncle, for his word is rule here."

He led them up a stone staircase and into the inner court, where they entered a great stone tower. Tchakhura glanced back and noticed her brother gripping the hilt of his sword with white knuckles.

"Do not be afraid," she said. "I feared the buildings when I first came to Gondor, but never once have they fallen."

"Amazingly, you telling me not to worry hasn't helped," Tcharum replied tightly. Éomer watched them over his shoulder but made no comment at their speech. They climbed up another staircase in the stone tower and came to a wide room that had a great round table in the middle. Around it were seated a number of men.

They all got to their feet as Tchakhura entered the room, followed by Tcharum and Petakh. Éomer smiled broadly.

"My lords," he said, "it is my honour to bring you our saviour, the lady Tíniel of Gondor." He turned back to her and pointed to a man on the other side of the table. "My lady, Théoden King of Rohan, Lord of the Mark."

Tchakhura bowed slightly. "Théoden King. Éomer calls me a lady of Gondor, but I think in this situation I am more of a Khandi chief."

He frowned. "I remember your face," he said. "Though last time we met you were in different company."

She smiled slightly. "I have twice visited Edoras, king. But I was reunited with my tribe only a few days ago."

"Many things escape my memory, for a shadow weighed heavily on my mind," Théoden said. "But I will remember you well enough now, Chief Tíniel of Khand. You have my thanks, for it is by your sword that my people were saved."

"Your gratitude is payment enough," she said. "I only ask now that my people be guaranteed safe passage in the West, or at least in Rohan. We have come to aid the fight of Men against Mordor, but though we are here as allies I still fear attack from Northmen who see us as enemies."

"Done," Théoden said. "You offer much more than you ask, so I welcome you here, and welcome your people. Will you join our council?"

Tchakhura hesitated. "It would be my honour, king, but there are matters I would speak to you about first." He nodded his permission for her to go on, so she continued. "Some of my fighters are wounded, and we have nothing to heal them with. Might they be brought into the keep to be seen to? I can contribute healers, but no medicines."

"Have them brought," the king said.

"My thanks," she said. "Now the second matter – I did not bring only soldiers to the West, but also children and their mothers, who do not fight. They are waiting on the plains now, a day's march East of this place. May they be brought here, and inside the Deeping Wall, so they are less vulnerable?"

Théoden hesitated. "How many are they?"

"Two thousand," she replied.

He finally nodded. "Let it be done."

"And one more thing," she went on. "I lost seventy-three men and women to your cause. Allow my people to burn their bodies to honour their spirits."

"If you wish," Théoden said. "But there are also burial mounds for the Rohirrim and the hillmen of Dunland. Another shall be made for the dead of your tribe if you wish."

"Again I thank you, but for us there is no honour in being left to rot," she answered.

Tchakhura turned to Tcharum. "Go back to the _bamyë_ ," she instructed. "Tell Borund that the dead can be burned and sung for, and the injured can be brought inside to be healed. Make sure Mugura goes with them to translate. Then send a message to the mothers and children to come here with all speed. They will be given sanctuary within these walls until we decide our next move."

Tcharum hesitated, glancing at Petakh. "You are sure you would not rather I stayed with you?"

She nodded firmly. "Petakh has a better understanding of the Northmen's speech than you do, and she is just as able to protect me. But in any case, I am safe here."

Tcharum nodded. "Be careful. _Khuma_ ," he said, and left the room. She turned back to the table. The men around it had watched the conversation in silence, not understanding the Khandi speech. Tchakhura supposed she could have said anything. She looked at Petakh.

"Don't you think it's funny how they don't understand us?" she asked, keeping her voice low and serious so it sounded like she was giving orders or discussing troop movements. "We could say anything we wanted, and they wouldn't be any the wiser."

"This room smells like mould," Petakh said gravely. "And I think I need a new pair of boots."

Tchakhura fought to keep the smile off her face. "I'm hungry. I haven't eaten for hours, and now I'm going to have to sit through this awful meeting."

Petakh's jaw shifted, and Tchakhura could tell she was trying not to laugh. "That man over there is ugly."

"That's a bit harsh. I'm sure his mother doesn't agree with you."

"Then his mother is blind," Petakh said, nodding her head like Tchakhura had just ordered her to do something. "But I think you'd better sit down now, Khondyë. We both know Northmen aren't too bright, but you won't want to keep them waiting."

Tchakhura nodded once, unsmiling, then turned to Théoden and spoke in Westron. "Forgive me, king," she said. "May I sit?"

He gestured to an empty chair. Erkenbrand, who was sitting next to it, pulled it out for her. She sat, and the king began making brief introductions around the table.

"Lady Tíniel, I present to you the Marshal of the West Mark, Erkenbrand, whom you have already met, and his lieutenant Gamling. Gandalf Stormcrow, you have met. This is my banner-bearer, Guthláf, and beside him Elfhelm, Marshal of the East Mark. You know my sister-son Éomer and his sister Éowyn already."

Tchakhura nodded politely to each of the lords and gave a warm smile to Éowyn, who returned it. But her heart froze when her eyes fell on the next three faces at the table.

"And here are three allies who, though not of Rohan, fought bravely for its people," Théoden continued, not noticing her change in expression. "Gimli of the Lonely Mountain, Legolas of Mirkwood, and Aragorn of the Dunedain."

There were other men to introduce, but Tchakhura was already on her feet and making her way around the table. Gimli was the first to reach her, and he hugged her tightly, lifting her off her feet.

"Took you long enough to see us, princess!" he declared.

She laughed, squeezing him back. "By the stars, you're here! I should have known there'd be a dwarf where trouble is thickest."

Gimli set her down when she thought her lungs would burst, and she turned to Legolas who embraced her briefly, then took her by the shoulders and looked her up and down.

"You are injured," he announced.

"Nice to see you too," she said drily. "And I'm fine, I sewed it up."

His lips twitched. "If you say so, princess." He stepped aside, and Tchakhura saw Aragorn. He didn't smile, but stared at her, as if unsure what to say. Suddenly aware of the men around the table watching them, she hugged him briefly and stepped back.

"I am glad you're alive," she said, and inwardly winced. _Glad you're alive?_ An orc could have come up with a better greeting, she thought bitterly.

"It's good to see you again," he said quietly, his eyes burning with some strange intensity.

She was saved from replying by Théoden. "I take it you are already acquainted with these three then?" he said.

"Acquainted," Gimli guffawed.

She smiled, returning to her seat. "You could say as much."

"I am afraid we shall have to cut short the reunion," Gandalf said, "for we have things of great importance to discuss. First, we must decide what is to be done with Saruman."

"Where is he now?" Théoden asked.

"The Ents have barricaded him in Orthanc, his tower turned prison. He is trapped there with Gríma Wormtongue, who returned there after you banished him, my lord."

"Tell the Ents to kill him," Éomer spoke up heatedly. "He has brought untold suffering upon Rohan, and he should pay for it."

There was a rumble of agreement around the table, but Legolas shook his head. "Thus the Enemy would treat with his prisoners. We are not of a kind with the Enemy. I would counsel mercy."

"You have not suffered years under the yoke of his dark power, Elf," said the man called Gamling.

"And yet he speaks with reason," Aragorn said. "Even if death should find him, by our hand or another, we should speak with him first. Any information he has is valuable to us."

"East to Isengard my path lies," Gandalf said, "though I shall not stay there long. Those who will may come with me. There we will see strange things."

"My men are tired and battle-weary," Théoden said.

"Then let all who come rest now," Gandalf replied. "But do not bring many men with you, Théoden. We go to a parley, not to a fight."

"It is decided then," Théoden said. "A party will ride out as soon as is reasonable. Now to our second issue: moving people."

"Not so difficult," Éomer said. "We have stopped the attacks at their source, but there is an enemy of even greater strength to the East. Send out your best riders to every vale in the Mark and summon all men, young and old, to Edoras." There was a rumble of approval from the Rohirrim at the table.

"Lady Tíniel, your tribe is welcome to follow us to Edoras if you wish it," Théoden said. "There is no room for them in the city, but they may make camp outside. We can arrange tents to be erected."

"There is no need, for we have our own," Tchakhura said. "I accept your offer."

"Then the riders shall go," Théoden said. "Helm's Deep shall be evacuated and every able soldier of Rohan will muster in Edoras. Éowyn, will you oversee the evacuation of the caves?"

Éowyn nodded. "As you wish. When should I begin?"

"As soon as you may," Théoden replied.

She stood. "With your leave, then, I will go." He nodded, and she left.

"That leaves one thing to be decided," Aragorn said, turning to the king. "What is your course of action, now that Rohan is free from the clutches of Saruman?"

Théoden shook his head. "That is a discussion that we can have in Edoras, after we have spoken with the wizard and rested. We have won a great victory this day. Do not so soon look for the next battle."

Aragorn didn't look happy, but he didn't press the matter and Théoden nodded, satisfied. "Enough talk for now," he said. "Go. Mourn those you have lost, but do not be downtrodden! Remember who won the Battle of the Hornburg! We ride to Isengard as soon as we may."

He stood, and so did all around the table. They began to file out.

Tchakhura turned to Petakh, who had been silently standing behind her chair. "Not as long as it might have been," she said. "The Rohirrim seem to like talking less than the lords of Gondor. How much did you understand?"

"Barely any," Petakh replied. "Listening to you speak slowly and clearly is hard enough, but trying to understand them… that is a different matter entirely. What was decided?"

"We will go to see the master of the orcs that attacked the Deep last night. We will get information if we can, and he will likely die afterward."

"As he deserves," Petakh replied darkly. "What of the _bamyë_?"

"We are going to the home of these Northmen, a town called Edoras. The _bamyë_ will make camp outside it. Would you go tell Tcharum that when the mothers and children arrive they must march with the _variag_ on to Edoras?"

"Of course," Petakh said. "And what of you?"

"I will ride to see Saruman, the evil magic man," she said. "Then I will return to you. But right now, I mean to speak with some friends of mine." She glanced back at the table. As she had hoped, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli had waited for her – and Gandalf too. They were still in their seats, watching the two women speak. "I shouldn't be too long."

"Very well," Petakh said. "I will go. I am eager to get out from underneath all this stone. _Khuma._ " She exited the room, throwing dubious glances at the ceiling. At last, Tchakhura turned anxiously back to her friends.

"Merry and Pippin?" she asked, not sure if she wanted to hear the answer.

"Safe," Gandalf said, the enigmatic smile he seemed to wear perpetually back on his face. "They escaped their captors and ran into Fangorn Forest, where they were found by friends."

"I see," Tchakhura said slowly. Although Gandalf's statement raised more questions than answers, she was relieved. "But _you_ , Gandalf…" she shook her head. "I still do not understand. You were _dead_. I know you were, and now…"

"Now he is alive," Gimli said. "Best to accept and not ask too many questions, I've found."

"By the grace of the Valar, he has returned," Legolas said happily. "Mithrandir has a great purpose in this world, and he shall not leave us until it is fulfilled."

"We shall see, Master Elf," Gandalf said, looking out from beneath his protruding eyebrows.

"What of you?" Aragorn asked. "How did _you_ come to be here, and with a troop of thousands at your back?"

She shook her head ruefully. "The gods know," she said. "The short story is that I went East to find them, as you know. But I was intercepted by orcs, who thought I was one of the Enemy's army. They tried to bring me to Mordor, but I escaped into Ithilien. I found Faramir, Boromir's brother, who is Captain there. He was about to attack my tribe, who had deserted the Enemy's cause and were returning to Khand. I stopped him, and joined them, and we came West. Then Erkenbrand, the Marshal, found us and nearly rode us down. But he didn't. And we came here."

There was a beat of silence while the four of them tried to comprehend her story, and she remembered another important detail. "I saw Frodo and Sam! They were in Ithilien, trying to get into Mordor by a secret pathway."

At this, Gandalf sat forward. "A secret pathway?"

"They told me they had a guide, but I learned nothing else. I had to leave them."

The wizard shook his head, his eyes twinkling. "I suspect there is much more to tell of your story," he said. "But for now, what you have said must suffice! Saruman awaits. Tíniel, you will need a horse; go to the stables, and if they do not give you one at once, tell them I sent you. If they still will not lend you a horse, tell them that Théoden King sent you. If they still refuse you, I am afraid you must run to keep up with the rest of us." He donned his pointed hat and swept, in a very self-satisfied way, out of the room.

Tchakhura shook her head, standing. "That wizard," she said. "He knows things, and I have no idea how he does."

"But he'll never tell you straight what he does know," Gimli added, coming to his feet as well.

"I don't mind his knowing," she said. "It's just, when he gives you one of those _looks_ , you know that he knows. And then you want to know exactly what it is he knows, but you'll never know, because he never tells what he knows except in riddles. He's like an Elf."

"Why thank you," Legolas said cheerfully.

"I thought I was going to die last night," Aragorn said glumly. "Now I think it would have been easier if I had."

Tchakhura couldn't hide her smile.

* * *

The courtyard was now packed with the wounded, both Rohirric and Khandi. Tchakhura made her way over to the Khandi side and surveyed her people. There weren't too many; they could easily be carried to Edoras on stretchers.

"Mugura!" she called, seeing a familiar face and coming to crouch beside him on the ground. "I thought I told you to stay at the back!"

"You did, Khondyë," he croaked, trying to smile. "And I did. Mostly."

She frowned at him. "What happened?"

"Sword in the belly," he said. She glanced down, and sure enough his midriff was covered in bandages.

"You look like you will live, in any case," she said.

"They tell me so, Khondyë. But it hurts a lot."

"Serves you right," she said harshly, "for not obeying orders. You might be a capable _variag_ , Mugura, but I had my reasons for ordering you and the other young ones to the back. Besides, you have other talents that might prove more important than fighting." He looked down, shamefaced, and she softened. "Like talking," she said. "You talk an awful lot. I want you and Petakh to be the translators for the tribe while I am gone, do you understand?"

He brightened. "Yes, Khondyë! Where are you going?"

"Nowhere you need to worry about. Now stop talking and get better."

"Yes, Khondyë."

She straightened and walked over to one of the healers. " _Khuma,_ " she said. "The boy Mugura, will he live?"

"I think so, Khondyë," the woman replied. "Unless it becomes infected, he will live, gods be good."

"Gods be good," Tchakhura repeated.

"Khondyë!" came a familiar voice, and she turned to see Borund. "How was your secret meeting?"

"Only secret to those too lazy to learn the Northmen's speech," she said.

"I would, but I don't want to decrease my intelligence," he said nonchalantly.

"You cannot decrease what does not exist," she replied. "Will you ride with me? We go to parley with the commander of the army we defeated."

"I am at your command, Khondyë," he said dramatically. "Who goes with the _bamyë_?"

"Tcharum will stay with them and command in my place. Petakh and Mugura will be there to translate, if the few days of Westron lessons I gave them were any good."

"And we will return to the _bamyë_ after our visit with the enemy?"

"Yes. And we will make good time, for we will be on horseback."

"Very well. What are we waiting for?"

* * *

As it turned out, taking two horses from the stable hands wasn't nearly as difficult as Gandalf had made out. They were only too happy to lend two of their excess of horses to the Queen from the East. Tchakhura frowned at the ridiculous title, but took the horses anyway, handing one off to Borund.

They met the rest of the party outside the Deeping Wall, which was already being reconstructed. They didn't number many; Théoden, Éomer, Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli were there, as well as twenty Rohirrim. They set off, keen to be free of the stench of battle that still hung on the evening air. As they rode away from the deep, a huge crowd of Rohirrim riders and women and children who had come out of the caves. Together, they began to sing a song of victory in their language. Tchakhura sat astride her horse and listened in awe.

Though clouds still hung heavy in the sky, they seemed more natural than they had the night before, during the battle. Not long after they left, it began to drizzle.

"Why does this always happen in the North?" Borund grumbled, pulling his _vadi_ up to cover his head. "It's always wet, and always freezing."

Tchakhura frowned. "Freezing? It's well into spring."

"Tell that to the weather," he replied. She glanced sideways at him and saw that he was shivering. Her frown deepened, and she dropped her reins for a moment to unclasp her Elvish cloak.

"Here," she said, handing it to him. "Put that on."

"Your friend is cold?" Legolas asked. Tchakhura started in the saddle. Somehow, even though he was riding, he'd managed to sneak up on her.

"It seems that way," she replied. "Legolas, this is Borund." She switched to Khandi. "Borund, this is my friend Legolas."

"I'm never going to be able to say that," Borund said. " _Yeg-yess. Yega-yess._ "

Tchakhura grinned at Legolas. "We don't have the _l_ sound in our language," she said. "It took me a while to get it."

The Elf shrugged. "Yegayess it is then!"

She sighed. "How are you always so happy?"

"I am not."

"Well you always _seem_ happy."

"Mortals are very poor at reading emotion."

"You are so complementary."

"You're welcome."

"Sarcasm, Legolas. I was being sarcastic."

"Me too."

She rolled her eyes. It was impossible to win here. "You found Merry and Pippin, then?"

"No. We pursued them on foot for days without luck. Then we followed their tracks into Fangorn Forest, where we met Gandalf as he has become. It was he who told us the hobbits were safe with the Ents."

"I've been meaning to ask someone actually," she said. "What are Ents?"

"Tree shepherds," Legolas answered sagely.

"So… gardeners?"

"Not as such. They appear as trees themselves, but move and speak as creatures on legs."

Tchakhura's eyes widened. "Merry and Pippin are with talking trees?"

"Yes, I suppose."

"Hm. And you three left them with the… Ents, and went to Helm's Deep?"

"We were in Edoras first, where Gandalf cast out Gríma Wormtongue from the city and the evil from the king's mind. Then Théoden decreed that his people should be gathered to the Hornburg for their defence."

"Then came the battle."

"Then came the battle," he echoed, a faint smile on his lips. "And we survived."

"And I found you," she said.

He inclined his head. "I hear you are no longer a princess."

"I never truly was a princess, you silly Elf," she said. "But you're right. My father was killed, and I inherited his title."

"Your people are loyal, to follow you into strange lands and war," Legolas said.

"The Khandi surpass all other people in loyalty," she said proudly. "But war would have followed us wherever we went. I chose to fight in the West, and I think it was the right choice."

"You did win us a battle," he conceded.

"Not only us," she said. "You held the Hornburg for hours before we arrived. And Erkenbrand had a thousand Rohirrim behind him as well."

"Take some credit, princess," he said.

"I will take it for the decision, but nothing else," she declared, smiling.

'I am glad you made the decision," he replied. "It brought you back to us. It brought you and Aragorn together again."

The smile slipped from her face, and something squeezed in her chest. "Please do not press it, Legolas," she said, lowering her voice. She knew Borund couldn't understand what they were saying, but it didn't change the fact that she was discussing the man she once thought she loved in front of the man she was meant to marry.

"Why not?" Legolas asked, still irritatingly pleasant.

"There are a number of very good reasons that it will not happen. You are just causing pain by talking about it."

"If you feel pain, then you must have feelings for him," the Elf stated confidently.

Tchakhura clenched her teeth. "Legolas, I have asked you to stop."

He shrugged, still unflappable. "I cannot ignore what I see before me," he said.

"I don't think I mentioned before," she said loudly. "Borund is my betrothed." Borund glanced over, hearing his name, and she offered him a half-smile. He smiled back. Legolas, on the other hand, was frowning.

"I am not sure I understand," he said slowly.

"Must I explain the meaning of marriage to you?" she said impatiently. "We have been sworn to each other since my birth."

He shook his head. "But Aragorn dreamt of you – the Valar had a purpose –"

"The purpose of the gods is clear to none but themselves," she said, a note of regret in her voice. "I should know, better than anyone. So, Legolas, please stop talking about it."

The Elf inclined his head, graceful even in his confusion. "Very well."

Aragorn, riding quietly behind them, pulled gently on his reins to drop further back in the party and away from his friends. He felt guilty for eavesdropping, but he was glad he'd heard what he had without having to have the painful conversation himself. Now he could safely move on, knowing there was nothing left for him.

He tried to feel relief, but instead he felt sadness – tinged with a hint of anger. He stared at the Khandi man unconsciously. He knew too little about him. His name was Borund; he had been promised to Tíniel since birth. He was a big man, almost as tall as Aragorn and one and a half times as broad. But what was he like? Was he good? Was he kind? Did he make her laugh? Would he do anything for her?

He realised he was glaring daggers at the man's back, and he looked away quickly. None of it mattered; Tíniel wasn't the kind to break a promise. He pulled up his hood to ward off the drizzle. The sooner they arrived at Isengard, the better.

* * *

 **Spring is bringing leaves to the trees, flies to the air and another chapter to the story.**

 **First off, a huuuge shout out to Pyo-Kiyo who spotted my lazy writing: you were absolutely right, Faramir actually met Frodo and Sam in Ithilien a few days _after_ the battle of the Hornburg. But alas, this flew out the window in my universe because I always wanted Tíniel and Aragorn to reconverge at Helm's Deep. **

**Now to pineapple-pancake: I've fixed up the content warning in Chapter 22, and at the start of Chapter 23 there's a quick rundown of what happened for anyone who decides to skip. I also adored your long reviews :)**

 **And now to the rest of you: your reviews make me smile. Yes, basically everything in this country (Straya) is dangerous (you think koalas are cute, you should hear them roaring at night). Also there've been a couple of PM's and reviews asking for what the characters/objects look like. I'm so bad at drawing that it's practically illegal, but if anyone else is good at it and wants to draw someone/something from the story, let me know and I'll give you a detailed description!**

 **What a rant, geez. Sorry. Next chapter might be a while, maybe even well into next month, but you know sure as heck it'll be there. Please review and I'll ignore my exams to write for you.**

 **S**


	28. Live How We Must

**28 – ORTHANC**

* * *

They made camp late that night and continued at dawn the next day. The sun rose, but they couldn't see it through the heavy fog that lay thick on the land all around them. It was slow going, but at last they could see faintly that they had passed into Nan Curunír, the Wizard's Vale between the arms of the mountains. It seemed to Tíniel that the land had once been fertile and green, but now it was a wilderness of brambles and weeds. It was a solemn country, stony and burned.

At length they reached a wall of stone so high that it was cliff-like. The road they were on led under it, through a great gate and a tunnel. When they came out the other side, Tíniel caught her breath.

There was an enormous stone wall that ran out in a great circle, creating a bowl-like shape. At its centre rose a tower whose size exceeded any she'd seen before: four enormous columns of smooth, black rock seemed to rise from the very bones of the earth. They melded into one great structure until the very top of Orthanc, where they opened into gaping horns, their pinnacles as sharp as knives.

"Magic," Borund breathed beside her. "No man could make that."

She glanced sideways at Gandalf, who was watching the tower with an unreadable expression on his face. "I don't think men made it," she replied.

Théoden, Éomer and their men seemed equally as awestruck. Tíniel looked back at Orthanc, tracing down its shape with her eyes until, upon one of the piles of rubble near its base, she saw…

"It cannot be," she whispered, her eyes widening. The world in ruins around them, Merry and Pippin sat happily on a great heap of broken stone, smoking a shared pipe. As they approached, Merry sprang to his feet and bowed low to Théoden and Éomer.

"Welcome, my lords, to Isengard!" he said. "We are the door-wardens. Meriadoc, son of Saradoc is my name, and my companion –" at this he nudged the dozing Pippin with his foot "– is Peregrin, son of Paladin. We are terribly sorry that the Lord Saruman has not come to greet you, but he's been rather scarce these past few days."

"Combing his beard," Pippin mumbled sleepily.

"And where is our greeting then?" Gimli asked, unable to contain himself any longer. "You rascal of a woolly-footed hobbit, putting on airs. Who bade you make such a show?"

"Our orders came from Treebeard, who has taken over the management of this humble abode," Merry replied gravely, his eyes sparkling with glee.

"And a much finer job he's doing than that wizard did," Pippin interjected, still on his back.

"A fine hunt you have led us on!" Gimli cried, not to be distracted. "Two hundred leagues through forest and field, battle and death, to rescue you! And here we find you, feasting and idling and – and smoking! _Smoking_! You villains, I am so torn between joy and rage that it shall be a marvel if I do not burst!"

"It is clear that we are witnessing the reunion of friends," Théoden said. Éomer was smirking beside him. "But what marvellous creatures to see! Half-men whose voices resemble the piping of birds and who spout smoke from their mouths."

"Do not start them on the subject of pipe-weed or we shall be here three days," Gandalf warned. "Merry, where is Treebeard? Is Orthanc guarded?"

"Treebeard is somewhere yonder," Merry said unconcernedly, waving his hand to the East of Isengard. "But Quickbeam and some of the others are watching the tower."

"Théoden, come with me if you will," Gandalf said. "The rest of you may stay here and eat. We will approach Orthanc shortly."

Tíniel dismounted as Gandalf rode away with the king and his company. Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli stayed, as well as Borund.

"I didn't understand a word of what was said," Borund said, still clutching the cloak around him as he dismounted. "What are those children? Where is the magic man? And what are those giant moving things over there?"

Tíniel glanced to where he pointed and stared. "They call them _Ents_ in Westron," she said. "They are walking trees. The two half-men are called Merry and Pippin, and all of their people are small like them. And Saruman is in the great black tower. We will go find him soon."

"Walking trees," Borund said, blinking slowly. "I see."

"Tíniel!" came a cry, and before she could turn around, she was almost bowled over by the two Halflings, who had flung their arms around her.

"How we worried for you!" Merry said, releasing her after a moment. "We thought a lot about everyone that we left behind, for we got a little news out of Treebeard – and poor Boromir of course – and we worried, especially when we gathered there was to be a great battle. But here you are!"

"And you two!" she returned, half scolding and half laughing. "The gods watch over you indeed! I am glad to see you again."

"Who is your friend?" Pippin asked, looking at Borund curiously.

"He is Borund, a man from my tribe. He does not speak the Common Tongue, but he is friendly. I took a rather different route to the others and picked him up along the way."

Pippin bowed gallantly toward Borund. "Pleased to make your acquaintance," he said. Borund nodded back warily, his hand on his sword. Pippin took a small step back.

"No time for long tales now," Gandalf cut in, appearing again from behind a large pile of rubble. "There is work to do! I think you two hobbits have rested quite enough."

"We have," Merry replied, "and smoked the whole time. I feel much less ill-disposed toward Saruman than I did before."

"Do you indeed?" said Gandalf. "I do not. Time to pay him a farewell visit now; those who wish to come with me may – but beware! It will be dangerous, and probably useless."

"What's the danger?" Pippin asked, cracking one eye open. "Will he pour fire from the windows? Will he shoot at us, or bewitch us from afar?"

"The last is most likely," Gandalf answered, and his eyes glittered. "But now is not the time for jests, Master Took. A wild beast cornered is not safe to approach, and Saruman has powers none of you could guess. Beware of his voice!"

The base of Orthanc, though it had borne the fury of the Ents, showed no splinters or scratches. It gleamed as though every inch of it had been polished. On the Eastern side, there was a great door; leading up to it, there was a staircase of twenty-seven steps.

"I will go up, for I know this place," Gandalf said, dismounting from his horse. "Aragorn, come with me."

"I too wish to speak to my enemy," Théoden said. "Éomer shall come also."

"Legolas and I shall go, to represent our peoples," Gimli said. "I wish for a closer view, at least."

The six of them began to climb the stairs without another word.

"Well, clearly we're not wanted," Pippin said.

Tíniel blinked and swiftly dismounted. "I don't think I'm invited," she said to Borund, "but I am going anyway to speak with the magic-man of this place."

"Let me come," Borund said, dismounting too. "I don't like the feel of it."

She shrugged her consent, and the two of them made their way up the stairs behind the others.

When he reached the top, Gandalf took his stick and beat on the door with it. "Saruman!" he yelled, his booming voice echoing across the great bowl of Isengard. "Come out!"

The door did not budge, but a window above the door was unbarred. A pale face appeared.

"Who is it?" the man said. "What do you want?"

"You slimy _worm!_ " Éomer snarled, grasping his spear and readying it to throw, but Théoden caught his arm.

"It is Gríma Wormtongue," he said grimly. "I recognise his voice too well."

"Go and fetch Saruman, Gríma, since you have become his doorman," Gandalf called, his voice laden with distaste. Gríma scowled and disappeared, but seconds later another voice, low and melodious, echoed out from the window. The very sound of it emptied Tíniel's mind of any shred of thought, except that the voice was wise and reasonable, and she needn't worry about anything so long as he was in control.

"Well?" it said, questioning gently. "Why must you disturb my rest? Why do you give me no peace by night or day?"

She blinked, and suddenly saw an old man standing at the rail. He wore a cloak that changed colour as it moved, and his eyes were deep and coal black, their expression hard to read.

"But come now," he spoke, and Tíniel found herself relaxing again. "Two of you I know by name. Gandalf, who I know well, and Théoden, who I know by his noble deeds. How I wish you had come earlier, and as friends!" His voice changed to one of unfathomable sadness. "Despite the injuries you have done to me, I would still help you, Théoden King. Ruin lies at the end of the road you have taken. I alone can save you now."

Théoden opened his mouth to speak, but no noise came out. He glanced sideways at Gandalf, seeming to hesitate. It was Gimli who broke the silence.

"The words of the wizard are sticking in our heads!" he said, shaking his own violently. "Hewould bring ruin and death, not help!"

Saruman seemed unperturbed. "What have you to say, Théoden King? Will you have peace with me?"

Still Théoden didn't answer, but this time Éomer spoke up. "We have not fought our way to victory to stand and listen to an old liar with honey on his forked tongue!"

"We will have peace," Théoden said at last, thickly and with an effort. Éomer looked up sharply, but Théoden held up his hand. "Yes, we will have peace," he went on. "We'll have peace when you and all your crooked ways and evil works have perished! You would deliver us to your master in Mordor and call yourself a king. But if you were ten times as wise, you still would not be worthy! I may be a lesser son of great fathers, but for me your voice has lost its charm."

His voice was harsh and grating to Tíniel's ears after the speech of the wizard, but it seemed to shake off some of the enchantment. She looked back up and saw Saruman leaning over the balcony, beside himself with rage.

"Fools!" he spat, and she shuddered at the change in his voice. "I pity you, Gandalf, having to keep such violent, ignorant company."

"Will you not come down to speak?" Gandalf said. His tone was pleasant, but somewhat weary.

Saruman laughed harshly. "I am no fool, and I do not trust you," he sneered.

"The treacherous are distrustful," Gandalf answered. "I am not going to kill you, Saruman. You were once my brother. You may leave, free, if you wish it."

Saruman hesitated. "Free?"

Gandalf opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak Gríma ran to the balcony and threw down some shining thing.

"Begone!" he screeched. The shining thing – Tíniel realised it was some kind of ball – sailed right by Gandalf's head and landed on the steps beside him. The ball was unharmed, but the steps were cracked. Tíniel frowned, staring at its glossy black surface and the way it seemed to glow red from deep inside… then she realised what it was.

"Palantír!" she gasped. She yanked off her _vadi_ and threw it over the stone before anyone could touch it. Everyone else stared at her, but Gandalf nodded.

"You are right to be cautious," he said.

"Tchakhura!" Borund cried suddenly. "The magic-man is escaping!"

"Let him go!" Gandalf shouted. They all stepped aside, and Saruman flew down the stairs between them. Théoden's riders parted to let him through, and the Ents in Isengard straightened to watch the wizard flee. There was a moment of silence as he disappeared out the gate. Then Gandalf stooped and tucked the palantír, wrapped in Tíniel's _vadi_ , into his robes.

"Our work here is done," he said. "Let us begin our journey back."

They rode out of Isengard at a leisurely pace, Borund beside Tíniel.

"Here," he said, taking his _vadi_ from around his neck and holding it out to her. "You lost yours."

"That's alright," she said. "I rarely use mine these days anyway."

He withdrew his arm and looked down. She glanced over at him and frowned. He looked troubled, and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. "Are you well, Borund?" she asked.

He hesitated again, but then shook his head. "I cannot lie," he said. "I am… I am uneasy. You are my Khondyë, my best friend, and soon my wife. I want to keep you safe, but –" he shook his head in frustration. "I am useless in this place. I understand nothing that happens. There is so much evil here – I could hear it in the magic-man's voice – and I knew I was powerless against it. I don't know where we are, or how to get back where we were, and it's _freezing_ –"

"Borund," she said, cutting him off. "I cannot lie. I am so grateful that you are here with me. Perhaps you do not understand the things that that they are saying, but you understand _me_. None of these white men could ever understand the place I come from, the person I am, but you can. You make me feel easy when you are with me."

He ducked his head, some of the worry draining from his face. "Then I will go with you wherever you wish." He offered her his _vadi_ again and she took it, wrapping it around her shoulders.

"Now stop avoiding my question," she said. "Are you well?"

Borund sighed. "I do not wish to worry you," he said tightly.

Tíniel's stomach clenched. "What is it?"

"Tchakhura, it is nothing."

"I command you to tell me," she said, her tone brooking no argument.

He looked up at her and smiled. "It is truly unimportant. I have been feeling dizzy most of the time, and my limbs heavy. I feel weary. But I have no reason to believe that these are anything but symptoms of exhaustion after the battle."

"I do," she said, her brows creasing. "I have fought in scores of battles with you, and you have never been like this. Something is wrong."

He shrugged. "Well, nothing can be done for it until we get to… where are we going?"

"Edoras. But I want you by my side at all times."

He nodded at her, the expression on his face reminiscent of that of a boy who was being fussed over by his mother, but Tíniel didn't smile. In her mind's eye she saw Borund sinking into the darkness of the ocean while she floated at the surface, unable to save him.

His voice broke her out of the dark memory. "Tell me the name of that man again," he said, nodding to Aragorn behind them. Tíniel glanced at him, but looked away quickly when their eyes met.

"He is Aragorn, a great man of the North," she said. "If we are successful, he shall be king of all the lands in the West."

"He unsettles me," Borund said, pulling the cloak tightly around him again. "He is always staring at you."

"He is?" She fought the urge to turn back and look again. "I hadn't noticed."

"It is true. And he never smiles, except at the half-men. He looks like he is always brooding."

Tíniel couldn't help herself; she glanced back. Aragorn _was_ staring at her. This time it was him who looked away, almost guiltily, and she studied his face. He looked haggard, weary, and his face was drawn. He didn't look like a man who had just won a great battle.

"I think I should speak to him," she said, turning back to face the road.

"I think not," Borund returned. "I do not trust him, great Khondyë of the West though he be. The expression in his eyes when he looks at you…" he shook his head. "I do not understand it."

Tíniel shrugged noncommittally, trying not to wince at Borund's words. She wanted to pretend that she hadn't seen the look on his face, or how tired he seemed, or the sadness in his eyes that had somehow increased. But she had, and she couldn't bring herself to ignore it. She would speak to him when they stopped for the night, she decided. Not now.

* * *

They made camp in a small, sheltered gully that night. The Riders, still celebrating the victory they'd won at Helm's Deep, sang songs around the fire in their language. Tíniel sat a little apart from them at Borund's side. He had fallen asleep as soon as they'd stopped riding, and she watched him sleep with concern. His breathing was shallow and there was a sheen of sweat covering his forehead.

"You'll be alright," she whispered, laying her hand on his shoulder. "You'll pull through. You always have, and I know –" she paused. She wanted to say that she knew he'd get better, but the words on her lips felt like a lie.

"What do you say to him?" someone asked. Tíniel leapt to her feet in her surprise and came face to face with Aragorn.

"I – I just… nothing of importance," she stammered, avoiding his eyes.

"If you say so," he replied quietly, glancing down at her sleeping friend. "You were speaking about me today.'

She looked down at Borund too, trying to ignore the flush she could feel in her cheeks. "He just asked who you were."

"Did you tell him?"

"I told him you were a Northman who is to be king."

"And is that who I am to you?"

She hesitated. "I wish you would stop asking me questions."

Aragorn nodded as though he hadn't expected any other answer. He knelt beside Borund. "Is your friend well?"

"I cannot say," she answered, grateful for the change of topic. "I know little of sicknesses, but perhaps he has some Northern fever that our bodies are not accustomed to."

Aragorn knelt beside him and gently pressed his hand to Borund's head. "I can't tell," he murmured. "But he is strong, anyone can see that." He sounded almost bitter, and Tíniel frowned.

"Do you bear Borund ill will?" she asked before she could stop herself, sitting back down beside Aragorn. He twisted to look at her and watched her face carefully.

"You are always honest with me, so I will try to do the same," he said finally. "This man has done nothing against me. He seems honourable, noble, kind, brave." There was some kind of hurt in his voice that Tíniel didn't quite understand.

"But?" she asked.

Aragorn smiled at her, and she had to look away again to stop how she felt. "But he is something that I cannot be, and that is why he grieves me."

Tíniel stared down at Borund, seeing little. She was only aware of the other man kneeling to her right.

"So you know about him, then. Legolas told you."

"Yes."

"I am sorry that I have not spoken to you about this," she said quietly. "I was going to speak to you tonight, but... it is hard."

"I know," Aragorn replied, his voice gentle as ever, and she felt like something was tearing inside her.

"We will be married."

"When?"

"Perhaps when the war is over. It is how it must be."

"I am happy for you, so long as you are happy."

She flinched at his words. "Please don't say that," she whispered. Her voice was harsher than she'd meant it to be. "I'm sorry, I just – I wish – I know you aren't happy, and I wish you were."

"I am as happy as I can be," he said softly. "It's… well, it is hard. You know why."

She nodded, her eyes fixed on Borund.

"And I wish it could be different, but it cannot. So we will live as we must, and do what we can."

"It just seems wrong," she said. "That after everything we went through, it comes to this."

He covered her hand with his. It was large and warm and rough, and it sent chills up her arm. "We live how we must, and do what we can," he repeated. "I will always have the thought of what could have been. That will see me through."

She quickly withdrew her hand. "I wish I could forget," she said, finally looking up at him. "It would be easier."

"Maybe," he said. His eyes mesmerised her. They saw through every defence she put up, saw every feeling that she had hidden deep down. They were so sad.

"I don't think we should speak any more," she whispered. "I just – I just think…"

"As you wish," he replied. He didn't seem surprised or hurt, but he bore it as he bore everything. He got to his feet and brushed off his tunic. "Let me know if your friend gets worse. Good night."

She watched his back as he walked away, feeling horribly hollow inside. Every time she tried to push him away it felt as though she'd lost something unquantifiable. This time was no different.

* * *

 _Live as we must and do what we can_ , Aragorn thought. They were almost at Edoras, and he was tired of the road. It had been his life for months now with little respite, and he was weary of it. Edoras would be a place to rest for a while before the next battle.

 _Live as we must_. She rode at the front of the group and he at the back. It was good that they were separated, but he still didn't like being able to see her. She drew his eyes wherever he went.

"You've known me for longer than most," he said to Legolas. The Elf tilted his head to the side, a sure sign that he was listening, and Aragorn continued. "Have I ever been so ridiculously infatuated with a girl?"

"You loved Arwen," Legolas replied.

"She decided to leave me behind," Aragorn said. "And she was right to do it. It was a dream, a strange fantasy with her. But _this_ … Tíniel is as mortal as I am, and somehow it is more impossible for me to be with her."

Legolas regarded him sagely. "You make light of it, but you are hurting."

Aragorn winced. "Thank you for pointing that out, Legolas."

"You are welcome."

"My point is, I do not like how I feel. How might I stop?"

"There is no cure for such a thing," Legolas said. For once, his voice was tinged with a hint of melancholy. "I believed you two were destined for each other, but I was wrong –"

"Let somebody note down the words that just exited your mouth –"

"I _was_ wrong, but now you must learn to live with whatever you feel. Time will heal you as surely as it heals all wrongs."

"I don't think so," Aragorn replied, his eyes drifting back to the dark red and brown of Tíniel's tunic. "I think this one is here to stay."

* * *

 **Dear legends, here it is! Exams are over and I'm back home, so hopefully chapters will be back with their usual regularity. Please leave a review if you've got the time, your feedback is valuable as ever. Und mach dir keine Sorgen – der Sturm und der Drang kommen... See you all soon!**

 **S**


	29. The Problem with Ale

**29 — THE PROBLEM WITH ALE**

* * *

Edoras had become a city within a city. Aragorn smiled slightly as he rode toward the hill with the others; the city was there as it had always been, the river flowing down by the road. But thousands more people were crammed into the city wall, summoned from their farms and villages to the capitol. And outside the city walls, a city of tents rose from the grassy plains.

There were Khandi patrols on the boundary of the tent city, and three of them – both men and women, he realised – straightened when they saw Tíniel. They touched their left fists to their right shoulders in a salute.

" _Khuma Khondyë!"_ one of them called. Tíniel returned the salute and the greeting, and began talking to the guards in rapid Khandi. One of the guards peeled away and made a high-pitched calling sound in the direction of the camp. People began spilling out of their tents and making their way toward the road.

Tíniel spurred her horse forward and reigned it in beside Théoden, who rode in front of Aragorn.

"King, my people would like to sing for you," she said. "Well, sort of. Mostly they would like to sing for themselves, and they were waiting for me to return. But if you will allow it, they would like to sing our victory song."

Aragorn had to hide his smile at her unfailing honesty as Éomer grinned broadly and Théoden looked taken aback. "May we be an adequate audience," was all he said.

She bowed her head in deference, then rode ahead up the path a little. Aragorn watched in awe as her people, many of them dressed in the same dark red and brown tunic that Tíniel wore, assembled on either side of the road. He had known she was a chief, but he'd never really thought about it, never properly considered it. Now the evidence was here, right in front of him – thousands and thousands of people.

He sat on his horse with Legolas, Gimli and the Rohirrim and watched as Tíniel unsheathed her curved sword and brandished it above her head. With a deafening thunder of cries and whoops, her tribe people did the same.

She stood in her stirrups and shouted something that he didn't understand. The tribe answered as one, their voices merging into one thunderous cry that sent chills of wonderment down Aragorn's spine. They fell silent, and Tíniel cried out again, her horse sidestepping beneath her. Her words turned into song, and her people joined in.

They stomped their feet, clapped their hands, clashed their blades together to mark time as they sang. Aragorn didn't understand the meaning of the words, and the melody was haunting and foreign to his ears, but the emotion was undeniable. It was wild, fiercely joyful, free. He glanced at his friends beside him; Gimli's mouth was agape, and Legolas' eyes were shining.

"Look at her," Éomer breathed. Aragorn's eyes were drawn back to Tíniel. She was entrancing. Her expression was exuberant, fierce, triumphant. She brandished her sword in the air, her eyes on the thousands of people around her. She looked strong. She looked like a conqueror.

With a wave of exhilarated whoops and cheers, the song finally ended. Tíniel sheathed her blade and cantered back to the group as the tribe began to return to their tents.

"Honour to you and your people for giving us refuge, Théoden King," she said, out of breath and baring her teeth in a grin. Théoden merely nodded in reply, and Aragorn almost smiled. He knew what the king was thinking; Tíniel, the kind, good-humoured, well-spoken Tíniel, had transformed into a warrior chief – powerful, dangerous and a force to be reckoned with. It was disconcerting.

There were wars to wage and battles to win, but he didn't think he'd ever admired her more.

* * *

Tíniel left Borund with her brother. He seemed a lot better than the day before; he'd made her laugh all the way back to Edoras, and she'd heard his deep voice during the victory song. She hoped that it was behind them, that the vision of him sinking had been but a warning, but still she worried.

"Take care of him," she said quietly to Tcharum as Borund brushed down his horse a little way away from them.

"Is he…" Tcharum trailed off, not wanting to finish. They both knew what he meant, though: was Borund dying?

"I do not think so," she replied. "But if anything happens, if his condition changes – even slightly – find me. I will be in the city."

He hugged her tightly. "Go," he said. "I will take care of everything here."

She looked about her now, dismounting and handing her horse off to a nearby groom. Gandalf had left for Minas Tirith with Pippin but instructed the rest of them to take their ease in Edoras for the time being. The riders that had gone with them to Isengard were welcomed by their wives and children, and Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli were thumped on the back several times. Tíniel was largely ignored, until someone caught sight of her and called "The Queen from the East!" The cry was taken up until it echoed from all directions, mixed with cheers and laughter.

Tíniel looked about herself, overwhelmed, trying to take in all the strangers' faces and unsure of how to react. They were everywhere, a sea of pale faces pressing in, threatening to swamp her… Her eyes latched on to a familiar face, and she locked eyes with Aragorn.

He was watching her, his expression unreadable, but it calmed her instantly. He seemed solemn as always, his grey eyes grave and serious, but as he held her gaze, his face softened. In that moment, she needed him more than she ever had before. She needed him to reach out his hand to take hers. She needed him to wrap her in his arms so she could smell the mixture of wood smoke and river water that stuck to his clothing. She needed him to look down at her and tell her that she was his, and that he belonged to her. She needed him to –

"Tíniel!" came a cry. She spun and came face to face with a tall, blonde woman dressed in white.

"Éowyn!" she said, delighted. Éowyn grabbed her hand and tugged her out of the crowd and up the hill.

"Come, I shall take you to your room," she said. "How glad I am to have a chance to speak to you properly!"

"Me too!" Tíniel laughed, letting go of Éowyn's hand as the crowd thinned. "How goes it here?"

"I have only been here a short time," Éowyn said, leading her up the steps and into the great hall. "But my life has improved beyond compare now that Gríma has left. I am mistress of the city again, and my people aren't afraid to speak to me."

"You've done admirably," Tíniel said warmly. "The people are so fond of you. And everything seems to be running to plan!"

" _Seems_ is the key word there," Éowyn replied ruefully. "I'm waiting for everything to fall apart. All the great lords think that just because I am a woman, I must be good at keeping house."

"Men think all sorts of things that aren't true," Tíniel replied. "But in this case, I think they have a point. You _are_ good at your job. You're a born leader."

"Well, it's not the only thing I'm good at," Éowyn said, turning down a corridor. She stopped in front of a door and turned to face Tíniel. "I heard you fought bravely at the Hornburg. All the men are speaking of it."

Tíniel shrugged. "It's hard to be brave in a battle, but I fought, yes. Pity you were not born Khandi, then you could have done so too."

Éowyn pursed her lips. "We shall see," she said. Then her expression brightened, and she pushed open the door. "But look! I saved your old room for you."

Tíniel walked in and looked around. "It really is the same room I stayed in all those years ago?"

"It is," Éowyn said, moving to the bed and straightening the blankets. "I know you'll have lodgings in the encampment outside the city, but it would be our honour if you would stay in Meduseld. Besides, it means you won't have to walk all the way back after the feasting tonight."

"Then here I shall stay," Tíniel said, throwing herself down on the bed. "Ah, it feels good to lie down…"

Éowyn grinned, resembling her brother uncannily, then pointed to a basin in the corner. "Here is a pail of water for you to wash with," she said. "It is freezing cold, but there isn't much time before the feast tonight, so it will have to do."

Tíniel shook her head. "Of course there is a feast," she said. "Typical of Rohan."

Éowyn laughed. "It is to be enormous – an enormous excuse to drink ale and forget troubles. A celebration that will have songs written about it, my uncle says."

"I'm afraid I'll have to go in my tunic," Tíniel said, looking down in mild disgust at her travel-stained, battle-worn tunic. "Unless I can find someone who has another of my size in the camp that smells less… repulsive."

"Or unless you wear this," Éowyn said, going to the wardrobe and opening it. Inside hung a dress of dark red that matched the Khandi red Tíniel always wore. She stepped forward and reached out to feel it now. The material was durable, but not too heavy, and hanging beside the dress was a soft bodice of brown leather.

"Éowyn…" she breathed, and the other woman laughed.

"It would have meant more if I'd made it myself," she said, "but I didn't have the time. I commissioned one of the seamstresses to make it, and it was ready just in time. Isn't the colour perfect?"

"It is," Tíniel replied, fingering the dress again in admiration. "It's lovely. I cannot thank you enough."

Éowyn shook her head. "When I met you, years ago, you didn't question the fact that I wanted to fight. You didn't laugh at me or tell me that I fought well for a girl. You just told me that I could be better. And when you saw potential in me, I saw it in myself, and… well, I have been in your debt for a while now. This is just a small way of saying thank you."

Tíniel grinned. "I said the words, but it was you who did all the hard work," she said. "I am proud of you. And glad that you're my friend."

Éowyn returned the smile. "As am I," she said. "And now – as a friend – I am _bursting_ to tell you something!"

"What is it?" Tíniel asked.

"Do you know the man Aragorn?" Éowyn asked, leading her over to sit on the bed.

Tíniel tilted her head, a nervous flutter unsettling her stomach. "Better than some, I suppose," she said.

"Well, I…" Éowyn paused and flushed. "I do not know how to say it without sounding ridiculous. I think he is the best man that I ever met. I hold him in the highest esteem, and I – I admire him. I suppose what I am trying to say –"

Tíniel suddenly felt like throwing up. "You love him?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Éowyn nodded and grasped her hands eagerly. "Do you think it ridiculous?"

 _I think my heart is breaking again_ , Tíniel thought. "No – no, I do not. Of course it is not ridiculous."

Éowyn exhaled, relieved. "That is a weight off my chest, I tell you," she said. "And I shall tell you something more: I think he returns the sentiment."

Tíniel looked up sharply. "He – he what?"

"I believe – perhaps it is too much to hope – but I believe that he loves me," Éowyn said. Then she frowned. "Tíniel, are you well?"

"Yes, I am well." She tried not to make her words sharp. "But are you sure you haven't mistaken mere kindness or friendship for love?"

"I don't believe so," Éowyn said. "Well – I can only speak for myself, and all I know is that each time I see him, my heart begins to race. Do you think me a fool?"

Tíniel felt sick to her core. She paused for a moment to make sure her voice wouldn't come out strangled and strained. "You could never be a fool," she said. "And I think – I think – he and you are perfectly suited to each other. A princess and the heir to Gondor. And if he returns your affections…" It felt like the air was being squeezed out of her lungs, and she couldn't finish, but Éowyn didn't seem to notice. The smile sprang back onto her face and she jumped up from the bed.

"Then let us prepare and go down to the feast!"

* * *

The dress was beautiful, and Tíniel watched herself in the mirror as Éowyn laced up her bodice from behind. She hadn't changed very much since the last time she'd seen her reflection. Her hair, wound as usual into a tight braid, was a little longer; there were shadows under her eyes – but then again, those were always there. If anything, she simply looked graver than she used to. She tried to force a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes.

"There," Éowyn said, tying the laces at the small of her back and stepping around to survey her handiwork. "It suits you down to the ground. You could fight in that dress, I think."

Tíniel spun, watching the skirt billow around her. She was wearing her usual boots under the dress, and around her neck hung her _hamarakhi_ , the silver necklace that marked her as the leader of the Maruvikh tribe. At her waist were her two long knives, but she'd decided to leave her sword behind.

"You look lovely," Éowyn said. "Fierce and queenly and lovely."

"Nothing near you," Tíniel replied. Éowyn was dressed in white, as always, but she was radiant. Her long, golden hair hung down her back and her blue eyes sparkled merrily. Tíniel felt a pang; it was easy to see how Aragorn had come to love her, if it was true.

"Alright, we are both beautiful then," Éowyn said, flicking her hair dramatically to make Tíniel laugh. "Now let us go! The sun will soon be gone, and I can hear music already."

The two made their way through the corridors together until they entered the hall. It was lit by torched held in brackets on the walls and great fireplaces along the walls, their flickering golden light glinting off polished wooden carvings of horse heads. It was packed with people, laughing and dancing and clapping to the beat of the loud, joyous music. Tíniel spotted her brother and friends and leaned in so that Éowyn could hear her over the din.

"I will find you later!" she called. The other woman nodded, and Tíniel wound her way through the dancers to the other side of the hall.

Tcharum gave a low whistle when he saw her. "A strange mix of Khandi and Northern," he said, "but then again, so are you. I like it.'

She grinned at him. "I hope you washed your tunic before you came up."

He shook his head solemnly. "Not at all, Khondyë. I thought I would fit in with the horsemen much better if I didn't."

"Khondyë!" exclaimed Petakh, and Tíniel turned to greet her friend.

" _Khuma_ , Petakh! I am glad to see you here," she said.

Petakh grinned and switched to the Common Tongue. "I as well am happy," she said, her voice thickly accented.

"You can speak Westron!" she said in the same language. "I must be a good teacher!"

"It is true," Petakh replied, stumbling over some of the words. 'I many time speak with horse man. Now I speak better."

"You certainly do," Tíniel said, switching back to Khandi. "I am impressed. And Mugura? Has he recovered from his injury?"

"You can ask him yourself," Petakh said, stepping aside. "He wanted to come, and my foolish husband told him he could."

"You would have let him come if it was _your_ ear he was going to complain into for weeks to come," Vagura said, nodding in respect to Tíniel. She grinned back and craned her neck to see Mugura sitting down behind his brother.

" _Khuma_ Mugura," she said.

" _Khuma Khondy_ _ë_!" he said, trying to get up but wincing at the pain and deciding to stay seated. "I heard you went to see the magic-man who brought all the evil upon us in the battle."

She nodded and opened her mouth to reply, but he continued before she could.

"Did you see him? Did he try to enchant you?" His face grew concerned. "Did you defeat him? But of course you did, otherwise you would not be here. I have been practising the Northmen's language, and I speak it even better than Petakh now. Did you know they call you the Queen of the East? Don't they know that there are many Khondyës in Khand, not only you?"

Tíniel turned to Vagura and Petakh, blinking. "I always forget how much he talks," she said.

"You're the one who befriended him," came an amused voice, and her bewilderment turned to a scowl.

"Borund! What are you doing here?" she asked, accusatory. "You were supposed to be resting!"

"I did rest," he said, "and then I woke up feeling wonderful. And I wanted to see the horsemen dancing. So here I am!"

"He wouldn't shut up until I told him he could come," Tcharum said, rolling his eyes. "You think Mugura is a handful? Just wait until you're married to _that_."

"Watch your tongue, young _variag_ ," Borund said pompously. " _That_ is someone who will very soon be your superior."

"Superior at what, fighting badly?"

Tíniel turned to face the rest of the hall as they bickered behind her, a small smile on her face. For a flash of a moment, she had felt as though they were out East in a fire circle, the stars above their heads and the sand beneath their feet. She felt as though nothing had changed.

"Enjoy yourselves," she said suddenly, "and call for me if you want me. I am going to find my other friends."

She squeezed Borund's shoulder and then disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

Aragorn wasn't sure if he wanted to go to the celebratory feast that night, but things these days were seldom about what he wanted. He'd washed and put on the clean tunic provided, tidied up his beard and tried to rub away the bags beneath his eyes. He'd stared at himself in the mirror for a long while before Legolas and Gimli had come to find him.

They were both merry and jovial, telling tales of the battle and arguing about whether they should first visit the caves of Helm's Deep or the forests of Fangorn when the war was over. Aragorn was content to listen to them and shake his head at their bizarre friendship.

He hoped they wouldn't leave him alone at the feast, but he suspected they would. Maybe he would try to find the hobbits, or perhaps he could sit with Éomer or his sister. But tonight, everyone was in the mood to be happy except him, and he didn't want to spoil it for anyone.

He sat alone at one of the long tables now, sipping at his second flagon of ale. Music, chatter and laughter swirled about him, but none of it really registered. He'd seen her make her way over to her friends. She talked with them, laughed at their words and made them all laugh in return.

Borund was there, and she smiled at him with a gentle fondness before squeezing him on the shoulder and disappearing into the crowd. Aragorn looked back down at his drink, but nearly headbutted it when someone clapped him on the back hard enough to almost send him into the table.

"Aragorn!" Éomer crowed, sitting down beside him with three flagons in one hand. "The man of the hour!"

"Hardly," Aragorn replied, edging over so that Éomer was sitting beside more than on top of him. He was obviously already deep into his drink. "A good night so far, then?"

Éomer blinked several times and then raised one of the three flagons. "Wonderful," he replied loudly. "Victory is ours! _Forth Eorlingas!_ " He downed his drink and slammed the empty flagon on the table, then he looked over at Aragorn and frowned. "Why do you have ale left?"

Aragorn glanced down at his flagon then back up balefully. "I couldn't tell you," he said.

Éomer narrowed his eyes. "Finish it."

"I'm alright, thank you."

" _Finish_ it. It is a command. My command. To you."

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, but at Éomer's fierce expression he obediently sank the rest of his drink. Éomer shoved one of his remaining two into his hands, and he drank that too. When he set down the flagon, gasping and wiping his mouth, Éomer patted him on the back.

"That'll make you better," he said, his sentences punctuated by hiccups. "Only medicine anyone needs."

Aragorn disagreed with that on principle, but as he felt the first touches of the alcohol, he had to admit that Éomer had a point.

* * *

It was past midnight, he was sure, but the feasting – and the drinking – showed no signs of slowing. Legolas had found himself with Tíniel, Merry and Gimli, who was almost asleep on the table.

"Your turn, hobbit," the Dwarf mumbled, his head resting on one of his hairy arms.

"Very well," Merry said, frowning in thought for a moment, then brightening. "Drink if you've never kissed _two_ girls in the same night."

Legolas shook his head and drank deeply, and Tíniel sipped from her own flagon. "Can you stop picking ones that have to do with kissing women?" she said, sighing. "I am not in the habit of doing so."

"You certainly seemed in the habit of kissing that day at the river," Gimli murmured sleepily. "Remember? You thought you'd never see us again, so you took Aragorn by the very face, and – _oof!_ " he gasped when Legolas thumped him in the stomach.

"My turn," the Elf said as though nothing had happened. "Drink if you have never shot an orc."

This time Merry and Gimli drank, but Legolas eyed Tíniel doubtfully when she did not. "What?" she scowled. "I am not that bad a shot. The bow may not be my weapon of choice, but that doesn't mean I haven't used it in the past."

He studied her, his eyes narrowed slightly, but then he shook his head, seeing truth in her eyes. "Even excessive alcohol will not induce you to lie, it appears. I believe you, princess."

"Not a princess anymore," she said, sitting up straight. "I'm a _khondyë_."

Gimli lifted his head fractionally. "Is she speaking in tongues, or am I drunk?" he asked.

"Both," Merry replied. "Your turn now, not-a-princess."

Tíniel thought for a moment. "Alright. Drink if you have never…" she trailed off, her eyes fixed on one of the far tables. Legolas followed her line of sight and saw Aragorn sat beside Éowyn, laughing at something she'd said. She seemed to glow in the firelight, beaming as she spoke, her eyes fixed on his face. She put her hand on his arm and he didn't pull away.

"Drink if you've never been unhappy when you know you ought to be happy," Tíniel said miserably. Merry blinked and Gimli frowned.

"That one was rubbish, lass," the dwarf said.

Legolas moved to sit beside her. "Stop watching them," he said.

"I can look away but I'll still know that he's there, with her," she said, staring still. Then she shook her head violently. "No. You're right. It is really, really, really good that they have found each other. Don't you think?"

She looked to Merry for an answer, and the poor hobbit looked at Legolas with his mouth open, totally unaware of what she was talking about.

"It is a good match for him," Legolas agreed reluctantly.

"Exactly," Tíniel sighed, taking another long drink of her ale. "But I am lucky too. I have a good match, planned since my birth. Borund is wonderful. He is perfect, and he understands me. I love him." She wiped away a tear without seeming to realise that she was crying. "But then there are my _feelings_." She looked up at the rafters pleadingly. "Why did the gods give me _feelings_?"

"I've never once seen her like this," Merry said, watching Tíniel with wide eyes. "She ought to go to bed."

"Probably," Legolas agreed, but he couldn't bring himself to take her away just yet. He knew it was wrong of him, but she was admitting truths she never would have normally, and he wanted to hear them.

She sighed again and looked down morosely at her hands. "I do not need to be happy," she said. "Nobody does. So long as I am doing my duty, I might as well be sad. It doesn't really matter."

"Why would you wed Borund if it makes you sad?" Legolas prompted.

She scowled. "Have you not been listening to me? It is my _duty_. And I _love_ him. And it is my duty."

"You are the leader of your people; can you not change the law?"

Her eyes went round. "Are you _mad?_ Just because I am Khondyë doesn't mean I have the right to do – to do anything I want. If that were true, than I never would have had to do all the ridiculous things I've done – never would have run away, or been a pirate, or held Boromir as he died, or – or pushed Aragorn away…" the tears came again, and this time she just let them fall.

Merry took her brown hand in his white one and squeezed it comfortingly. "Never mind all that now," he said in what Legolas assumed was an attempt at cheerfulness. "Why don't we dance? Everyone else is dancing."

"I do not know how to dance," she sniffed. "Northern dances are stupid. A bunch of people standing in a line and agreeing to all move the same way."

Gimli propped himself up on his elbow and glared at her. "Why are you so bad-tempered tonight?"

Tíniel ignored his question and looked back over at Aragorn and Éowyn. Legolas felt his heart go out to her; she really was suffering. "Do you want me to take you to your quarters, princess?" he asked gently.

She shook her head. "I want to go over to them," she said. "But it is a bad idea. Tell me it's a bad idea."

He nodded solemnly. "It truly is a bad idea. Please, consider yourself, and do not go."

She nodded. "You're right. I shouldn't." She promptly stood up and began making her way over to Aragorn. Hurriedly, Legolas sprang to his feet and interposed himself between them.

"Dance with me," he said, a little breathlessly. "I will show you how."

She ground her teeth, her eyes flicking between him and the couple behind, but at last she took his proffered hand. He breathed a silent sigh of relief and led her onto the floor.

The dance was simple, and the steps were constantly altered according to the amount each dancer had drunk, so Legolas placed his hands on Tíniel's waist and spun her in easy circles. He had believed her drunk, but she was much steadier on her feet than he'd expected, and she moved with the easy grace of a practised warrior. He watched her face as they danced, and she watched his.

"I never should have said any of those things," she said quietly. "I would never usually allow myself to _think_ those things."

"You have been drinking," he replied. "Do not place blame where it is not due."

"It was a mistake," she said. "I would have made a fool of myself just then if it hadn't been for you."

"You are welcome."

"But I tell you, you don't need to worry about me," she said with a small smile that spoke of melancholy, but also a quiet determination. "I really am happy among my people."

"I will always worry for you," he replied. "You worry for everyone else, so it is my honour to return the favour. Somebody ought to."

Her smile became more like her usual one, a glimpse of pure delight. "You are too good for us, Master Elf," she said.

Legolas returned the smile and went to reply, but he was stopped by someone behind him clearing their throat. He released Tíniel from his grip and turned. It was Aragorn.

Legolas tried to warn him away with a look, but Aragorn either chose to ignore it, or missed it completely. He bowed slightly and held out a hand.

"Would you dance with me, Tíniel?"

* * *

 **Hello again! I am publishing this on a very dark day – literally dark, because there are huge bushfires raging across the east of the country and the sun is blocked by smoke. Think of us, wherever you are.**

 **Onto the lighter stuff – I made a few dialogue edits in chapter 27. Nothing to worry about and you won't need to reread unless you're so inclined. Secondly, if there are any Americans reading, what actually is thanksgiving? I thought it was just your Christmas, but apparently not. Thirdly: enjoy the lightheartedness while you can, because it's about to go down. Poor Tíniel.**

 **Hit that follow button if you haven't already.**

 **S**


	30. For Forever

**30 — FOR FOREVER**

 **Quick note: thanks for the Thanksgiving explanations. I hope you all enjoyed your turkeys and gave sufficient thanks for your continued survival in the wild lands of the New World.**

* * *

"Would you dance with me, Tíniel?" Aragorn asked, offering his hand. Tíniel glanced around; she couldn't see Éowyn nearby. Why didn't he dance with her? Why was her heart suddenly racing?

Legolas put his hand on her shoulder and shook his head minutely. "I think not, Aragorn."

Aragorn merely smiled. "I know you are trying to protect us, my friend. But do you think I don't know how things stand? I ask merely for a dance, nothing more."

Legolas still hesitated, glancing down at her. Tíniel paused too, unsure of what to do. Some part of her mind acknowledged that had she been sober, she would have politely – an _very_ firmly – refused and walked away. But she'd had one too many drinks, and another part of her mind thought perhaps that wasn't a bad thing.

"It's alright," she said to Legolas. "As he said, we are but two friends dancing. What harm could come of it?"

 _A lot,_ she thought to herself. The thought was reflected in Legolas' eyes, but he let her go regardless.

"I will be at the table," he said cautiously, and walked away.

For a moment, they stood unmoving, each watching the other as the music continued. Then Aragorn stepped forward.

"May I?" he said.

"May you what?" she asked stupidly.

"Touch you," he said, then blanched. "To dance. Take your hand, I mean. May I?"

She slipped her hand into his in response. He held hers gently, and rested his other hand lightly on her waist. They began to step together, out of time with the music and apart from all the other dancers, but somehow in rhythm with each other. At first, Tíniel kept her eyes firmly fixed over his shoulder, but with meaning them to, they crept up to his face. His grey eyes were already on her.

"You are beautiful," he said.

Her breath caught in her throat, but her expression remained neutral. So much for a dance between friends, she thought. "Not as beautiful as Éowyn," she said dispassionately.

He frowned. "Is it a competition?"

She arched an eyebrow. "I don't know, is it?"

His frown deepened, and immediately she flushed with shame. She was jealous when she had no right to be – jealous, no less, of a close friend. Tíniel hated jealousy, considered it a weakness that was resorted to by people with nothing better to do. She _should_ be ashamed.

"I am sorry," she said quickly, dropping her eyes. "Gods, I am sorry. That was ridiculous. I think it is a good thing."

He steered her out of the way of a careening couple. "What is a good thing?"

"You and Éowyn. It is a good match. She has the rank and the beauty, not to mention the courage, intelligence and kindness that many queens have lacked in the past. She is perfect for you."

" _Queen_?" he choked. "Let us not speak of queens until the war is won.'

She nodded, not meeting his eyes. "As you wish."

There was another silence, one that stretched a moment too long – long enough that Tíniel began to notice the way she felt warm under his touch, and how _good_ it felt to have her hand in his. She needed to distract herself.

"What is your next move?"

He blinked, but kept up with the conversation. "Tomorrow I will go to the muster at Dunharrow, I think. Gimli and Legolas will go with me. I would that we leave for Minas Tirith sooner, but there is little sense in my going there without an army."

"Come with me, then," she offered. "I will not wait for the mustering of the Riders. War is upon us, and every minute we wait, Mordor spews more darkness. My people march to Minas Tirith tomorrow morning, and it would be our honour if you three would ride with us."

He considered it a moment, then nodded too. "The honour will be ours."

"You should be careful, going to Minas Tirith," she said.

Aragorn spun her in a neat circle. "Why do you say that?"

"You do not know Denethor as I do," she replied. "He doesn't know that you exist – yet. And when he finds out… well. You must be very, very careful."

"He is so opposed to the return of the king?"

"He is of a mind with Boromir – convinced that Isildur's line disappeared long ago, and that he is the only remaining rightful ruler of Gondor. He will consider you an upstart for asserting your claim – an inexperienced, entitled fool."

"I am of an age with Denethor."

"Yes, but he has spent his life ruling, gathering wisdom and serving his people as best he can," she reasoned. "You have spent yours wandering the North, as far as he is concerned."

He smiled at her concern. "I have faith in my blood, Tíniel, and I have spent my whole life preparing. I do not fear the Steward of Minas Tirith."

"Perhaps you should be wary of him, then. He is a difficult man to deceive, and a dangerous man to cross. All I ask is that you enter the city in the proper way for the king, so that he cannot find fault with you."

Aragorn's smile faded and he held her gaze solemnly. "If you ask it of me, then it is done," he said.

"Thank you," she said, and they danced in silence for the moment. Tíniel was surprised at how easily the steps came.

"I count myself fortunate," Aragorn said, "that I have come this far. Not a month ago we were fighting for our lives on the shore of the Anduin."

"Fighting to the death," she said, her expression darkening.

His hand tightened fractionally around hers and his face became sad. "We are not Boromir," he said. "We have a future. Hope."

"Swords," she added, and he smiled.

"Swords too," he said. "We are not dead yet."

Another silence fell, but it wasn't uncomfortable or loaded. They simply danced. Tíniel found herself lost in Aragorn's eyes. They reassured her, steadied her, made her feel she could do anything so long as he was with her. She couldn't help herself; the next step she took she used to move fractionally closer to him. She told herself it was because she wasn't steady on her feet, because she didn't know the dance, but she knew the real reason was something else entirely.

* * *

Aragorn struggled to breathe normally when she took the tiniest of steps closer to him. She looked up at him, her face neutral but her eyes filled with an unplaceable emotion. Her face was only inches from his.

Without thinking, he swept her into the centre of the floor where they could move more slowly without being run down by the other dancers. The couples whirling around them seemed to disappear into his periphery as he gazed down at her. She was perfect. Perfect and unattainable.

But it doesn't matter, he thought to himself. He had little moments like this that he could remember, moments that could sustain him years into the future when she was married and leader of her tribe in the East. There was this dance, the kiss by the river, their time in Lothlórien…

They stood, barely moving, her arms around his neck and his around her waist, trapped in each other's gazes. She looked so sad, he thought. So beautiful and sad. But holding her hand in his was bliss, and he held his breath, willing the moment to last, willing himself to memorise every minute detail.

Too suddenly, the song ended, and the spell was broken. They separated, and Aragorn felt suddenly cold. She watched him with her sharp brown eyes, looking as though she wanted to speak but she didn't know what to say. Then she merely nodded at him, and disappeared into the crowd.

'You fool,' he whispered to himself, looking after her. The dance had been a bad idea, a terrible one, and he knew he never would have done it if it weren't for the ale bubbling through his blood. He knew his actions had been thoughtless, but he couldn't bring himself to regret them. Taking a deep breath, he followed her.

* * *

Tíniel was nearly crying. Why, _why_ had she agreed to such a stupid thing? As soon as she'd walked away from Aragorn, the spell had been broken and the moment shattered. The dance had been a terrible decision. Angrily, she ignored the merry calls of Petakh, Borund and Tcharum and pushed her way outside.

Winter was well behind them, but the cool night air still took her breath away. She walked a little way until she found a balcony, then she leaned against it and stared out into the darkness.

She could see the tens of fires down on the grassy plain below where her _bamyë_ was encamped. She began to calm down, and she smiled; she could hear the faint sound of music and laughter floating up on the breeze.

It was still and peaceful on the balcony, so she jumped when she heard a sound behind her, her hands going automatically to her knives.

"It's only me," Aragorn said, stepping into the moonlight. She relaxed, but involuntarily took a step back. His face was set, determined.

"Am I needed?" she asked cautiously. "Are – are you well?"

He shook his head doggedly. "No. No, I am not."

She began to feel afraid. "Aragorn?"

He closed the distance between them in three short strides, but he didn't touch her. She held up her hands placatingly.

"Aragorn, please… is all well? Did something happen?"

He breathed slowly, his eyes fervent. "Yes. I decided to stop being a coward, to stop feeling sorry for myself. I decided to live. That's what happened."

Her heart was thumping hard against her chest. "You did?"

"Remember what we said inside? We are not dead yet. What is the point of being alive if we are not living? Why should we hope if all we can hope for is a lifetime alone?"

"Please don't talk like this," she pleaded.

"I am not saying it because I have lost hope. I am saying it because it is _real_ , and if I let my whole life go without doing something about it… there will be no time in death to do the things I long to do in life."

He edged closer again, and his fingers brushed feather light across her cheek. She shivered.

"You have a duty, promises to keep, and I understand. So do I," he breathed, his eyes pleading now. "But is there no way to do your duty _and_ be happy?"

He edged closer still, and despite herself, she tipped her head back to meet his searching eyes. Their breath mingled, and she fought to keep hers under control. "Duty is before everything," she whispered, willing herself to remain strong. "Duty… comes before happiness."

He leaned in further still without meaning to. His nose touched hers, and her eyes fluttered closed. "So you doom me to love you alone?" he breathed. "Because that is the truth. I do love you, ardently and painfully and uselessly. I am meant for you, and you are meant for me. Never have I known a stronger truth than that."

For the hundredth time, she felt her heart break. It hurt more than it had ever hurt before. He was so close, so _close_ , that she could reach up and kiss him with the barest effort, hold him to her as near as she wanted in a mere moment. But she couldn't. She _wouldn't_.

With a gasp, she wrenched herself away, stumbling backward a few paces. She was breathing fast, and he watched her fixatedly, waiting for her to reply.

"It cannot be," she choked out brokenly. "It can never be, and I am so _sorry_ for it –"

"Tchakhura?"

She whirled to see Borund climbing the steps to the balcony. He saw Aragorn and his expression darkened.

"Borund," she said in Khandi, hiding her shaking hands in her skirt. "Is all well?"

"Yes, yes, we are fine. But I saw you leave, and you seemed… well, I wanted to make sure _you_ were alright," he replied. "So I followed you… I followed…" he frowned and pressed his hand to his head.

Tíniel took a step forward. "Borund?" His breathing got faster and faster, and he swayed where he stood.

"Tchakhura..." he said uncertainly, looking up in fear.

"Borund!" she cried, and rushed forward to catch him before he collapsed. He fell onto her, but he was heavy and she teetered under the weight. "Help me, Aragorn," she gasped, and after a moment the weight lessened.

Aragorn gently laid Borund on the ground and pressed his ear to his chest.

"He's breathing, but his heart rate is too high," he muttered. Borund's eyes rolled back in his head and he mumbled something unintelligible. Aragorn felt his forehead for a temperature, and after a moment turned to Tíniel, his face grave.

"It… it won't be long," he said quietly.

She frantically took Borund's hand in both of hers. "What do you mean?" she said unsteadily.

Aragorn hesitated. He could see in her face that she understood him well enough, so he didn't push it. "We should get him to a bed."

She nodded silently, trying to stop her hands from shaking, and slung one of his arms over her shoulders. His whole body had begun convulsing violently, so it was beyond difficult to carry him, even with Aragorn shouldering most of his weight.

As they passed by the door into the great hall, Tíniel kicked it open and shouted in.

"Tcharum! Tcharum, come to me! _Tcharum_!"

The door swung closed and they went on by, but seconds later Tcharum emerged with Petakh, Vagura and Mugura. "Tchakhura?" he called.

"Here, Tcharum! Help us!" He saw them and rushed over, taking more of Borund's weight. He looked up at Tíniel, fear written all over his face. She knew it was reflected in hers too.

They took Borund to Tíniel's room and lay him on the bed. She tried to cover him with the blanket, but his limbs were still spasming. Tíniel had to keep taking deep breaths to keep from bursting into tears.

"What is wrong with him?" she asked Aragorn, trying to speak without her voice trembling and failing miserably. "What happened?"

Aragorn shook his head, at a loss. "It could only be poison," he muttered, raking his hands through his hair. "But where from? His symptoms came on so suddenly, and they were so erratic – he seemed better today… he shouldn't have – unless…" Realisation dawned on his face, and he turned urgently to Tíniel. "In the battle, at the Hornburg, was he injured? Anything at all, even a small scratch?"

She pressed her hands to her temples, trying to think clearly. "Yes – yes. There was a wound, a knife wound on his shoulder, but it was shallow and not bleeding much. He told me he would dress it."

"Lift him," Aragorn ordered, and Tíniel translated for Tcharum. Together, they carefully lifted Borund into a sitting position. Aragorn quickly unlaced and removed the man's tunic, and then his undershirt. On the back of Borund's right shoulder there was a gash about as long as Tiniel's hand. It was clean and it wasn't bleeding, but nor was it healing. Aragorn leaned in and sniffed it. Immediately he recoiled.

"Lay him down," he said, and they did so. He turned to Tíniel, his face grim. "Whatever blade caused that cut was poisoned," he said. "Many Rohirrim suffered the same fate, but most of them died two days ago. I cannot understand how he survived this long."

"He is strong," she said shakily, the information not quite sinking in. "He is big."

Aragorn nodded. "He has followed all the patterns of orc-poison. He was ill, feverish for hours. He felt cold, but he was sweating. Then he seemed to be better, seemed to have recovered. And now… I am so sorry. He doesn't have long."

Her heart dropped to her feet, and she looked at Borund's ashen face. She wanted to throw up. "What can you do?" she said, her voice suddenly low and even. "Tell me you can do something."

Aragorn shook his head helplessly. "There is nothing that will –"

"There _must_ be something you can do!" she shouted. "He cannot die this way, not now!"

He hesitated, and looked down at the dying man. Tíniel was devastated, angry, and she had every right to be. At the very least it would give her some comfort, he thought.

"Clean cloths, hot and cold water," he said. "Any herbs you can find – especially lesser centaury, kingsfoil and verbena. Can you find them?"

She nodded, surveyed the room one more time, then swiftly left.

* * *

Aragorn turned back to the bed as she disappeared out the door. They wouldn't be here long; Borund would be dead within the hour. There was a chance he would wake up for a moment before the end – he had heard that many of the poisoned Rohirrim had done so – but then again, there was a chance that he would not.

Without warning, the convulsions worsened, and the man cried out in pain as he thrashed on the bed.

"Hold him still!" Aragorn cried, grabbing one of his legs. He wasn't sure if they'd understand, but one of them – a boy of about fifteen – called something in Khandi, and the three adults each grabbed a flailing limb to keep him still. After a moment, the cries subsided and the convulsions stopped. They all let go of Borund, and seconds later, his eyes fluttered open.

He said something in Khandi that Aragorn didn't understand, but he heard the name Tchakhura. Tíniel's name. Her brother replied to Borund, taking his hand and squeezing it. He pointed at Aragorn as he spoke, and Borund's eyes found his. His gaze was steady and challenging, and Aragorn held it evenly. After a moment, Borund called the boy to his bedside and said something, nodding toward Aragorn. The boy nodded and turned to him.

"My name is Mugura," he said to Aragorn in thickly accented Westron. "I speak some of your speaking. Borund speaks to you by me."

It took Aragorn a moment, but he understood. "Borund… wants to speak to me, and you will translate?"

Mugura nodded and turned to Borund. Tcharum propped him up on the pillows. He took a deep, shaking breath and began to speak.

"My name is Borund," Mugura said, his eyes on the dying man. "I am warrior of Maruvikh tribe of Khand. Tchakhura Khondyë is my wife." Mugura hesitated and turned to Aragorn. "Not wife, but… soon will be."

"Betrothed,' Aragorn said. 'I understand."

"My heart is sad when Tchakhura Khondyë is running away from Khand, long years ago," Mugura went on. "But always I love her. I find her again, heart is happy."

There was a pause while Borund curled up and grunted in pain, but after a minute the paroxysm subsided and he began speaking again.

"I love her," Mugura said. "I love her, but I see… you love her also."

Aragorn tensed, and so did Tcharum and the woman – Petakh.

"I do not…" Mugura turned to Petakh and said something in Khandi, asking for a translation.

"Trust," she replied softly

"I do not have trust for you," Mugura went on. "But this night I see you with Tchakhura Khondyë. You dance. And her eyes see you, with _love_."

Aragorn watched Borund as he spoke, his brow creased. Mugura went on.

"She sees you with love, and I never see this love for me. For me she sees duty, for you she sees love. You understand?"

"I do," Aragorn whispered. Borund nodded, satisfied, and his weak voice became deadly serious.

"Now you swear to me," Mugura said, listening carefully to Borund's fading words. "I am in death soon. This I know. But you are in life. You love her." He paused, as if waiting for an answer. "You _love_ her."

Aragorn realised it wasn't a statement but a command. "I swear it," he said readily. "I will love her until I am dead, and beyond."

"You protect her. Fight for her."

"I swear it."

"You give care for her."

"I swear it."

"And you give care for her people also, Maruvikh tribe."

Aragorn hesitated, but then nodded firmly. "I swear it."

At this, Borund sank back into his pillows and muttered something final-sounding.

"He says, gods are with you," Mugura said. Aragorn saw that there were tears in the boy's eyes, and he squeezed his shoulder.

"I thank you, Mugura," he said, but before the boy could respond, Petakh and Tcharum took Aragorn by the arms and propelled him into the far corner of the room.

Tcharum backed him against the wall and drew one of his long knives to hold it at Aragorn's throat. He spat something in rapid Khandi, and Petakh translated with just as much venom.

"We have no trust for you, Northman," she said. "You know not ways of Maruvikh, of Khandi, of Tchakhura."

Aragorn tried not to breathe too hard. The knife looked sharp. Tcharum said something more, his eyes dark and deadly serious.

"In Khand, promise is for _forever_ ," Petakh said, putting emphasis on the last word. "You say 'I swear, I swear,' but this is for _forever_."

"I understand," he said quietly.

"Tcharum protect Tchakhura sister. I protect Tchakhura Khondye. You hurt Tchakhura, you die. By _us_."

"I protect her too," Aragorn said. Petakh relayed his words to Tcharum, and the man narrowed his eyes but then nodded.

"Yes," he said, and sheathed his knife. He stared at Aragorn for a moment, then took his face in his hands and pressed his nose to Aragorn's. "Brother," he whispered. Aragorn didn't know how to respond, but at that moment the door opened again.

* * *

"I found the centaury," Tíniel said in Westron, breathless, "but the kingsfoil and verbena…" She hesitated at the door, seeing Mugura and his brother by Borund but the other three in a corner. They came over quickly.

"Tchakhura…" Tcharum said, his eyes filling with tears. "He is almost gone. You know it is useless. You know it, I know it, your Northman knows it. Borund does too."

She shook her head furiously. "We just have to try, brother. We need to."

He took the bandages and herbs from her hands and put them on the bedside table. "It is time to say goodbye," he said quietly.

Tíniel stared at him for a moment, her face aghast. He held her gaze steadily, despite the tears welling in his eyes. At last she nodded jerkily, and knelt beside the bed where Borund was lying, barely conscious.

His eyes were only half open, but he knew she was there.

"I am sorry," he breathed weakly, and she took his cold hand in hers.

"There is no reason for you to be," she said steadily. "You have never once failed in your duty to me or to the _bamyë_. You are a king among men."

"I wish I… could have married you," he went on hoarsely, every word an effort. "I wish I could have seen our children. Taught them to fight." His face suddenly scrunched up and he hissed through his teeth as his body was suddenly wracked by pain.

"Be easy, Borund," Tcharum said, kneeling beside Tíniel and joining his hand to theirs. "The way is easy now."

"Gods guide you," she whispered, forcing a smile. "And we will see you again soon."

He was so close to death, she could almost smell it on him. It hurt her to see him like that, pallid and pained and somehow smaller. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to picture him as he always had been: tall, broad, strong. Vibrant and filled with life, always laughing, always ready to make someone else laugh. Now he was sinking with Boromir into the ocean.

" _Khuma_ ," she whispered. Seconds later, he breathed out and didn't breathe in again.

"Oh, Tchakhura," Tcharum whispered, and she turned to him. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her shoulder, shaking with sobs. She held him tightly, stroking his hair to comfort him.

"Hush, brother," she whispered as the tears streamed down her face. "He goes to be with his father."

"We knew it was coming," he sobbed, his voice muffled by her dress. "We knew what would happen and we did nothing."

"We did everything we could," she replied. "We did everything, but now the will of the gods is done."

They stayed that way for a long while, the two remaining parts of what had once been three. Borund lay beside them on the bed, his eyes still half-open but now unseeing. Finally, Petakh cleared her throat.

"We should take him back to camp," she said, her voice heavy with grief. "We must burn him and sing for him before we move on."

Tíniel pulled away from Tcharum. "You are right," she said. "Find a plank of wood, a stretcher, a bier, anything. We will carry him down."

Petakh, her husband and Mugura filed out. Tcharum stayed hunched by the bed, but Tíniel got up and walked quickly to the window. Aragorn went with her, but didn't dare touch her.

They could still hear the sounds of revelling and merrymaking in Meduseld, but they felt wrong now. The half-moon was more fitting, shrouding the city below them in a pale, sombre light. Tíniel sucked in a shaking breath and Aragorn realised she was silently sobbing.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered.

Her face crumpled. "It is my fault," she wept. "He died for me. The gods took him so I could do what I need to do."

He couldn't simply leave her there to suffer. He took her hand. "What is it you need to do?"

She struck the stone windowsill with her fist. "I don't _know_ ," she sobbed, and he took her in his arms. She held him hard, almost painfully tightly, but her grief was so great he didn't care.

"I knew he would die," she confessed, her words choked and halting. "Even before they found me in Ithilien. I knew he would die, and I let it happen. I dreamed about it."

"You did everything you could," Aragorn replied, unwittingly repeating Tíniel's own words to Tcharum. "Please don't blame yourself."

She didn't move for another moment, but then she drew in a deep, shuddering breath and pulled away, wiping her face. "You have comforted me twice now after the death of my brothers," she said, her voice taking on the strange emptiness he hated. He knew she was trying not to feel. "Boromir first, and now…"

"I wish it didn't have to be so."

"I wish I had time to grieve them," she said quietly, looking up at him but not really seeing him. "But I won't. I never will, until this war is over."

"You will have time," he whispered, but he knew the promise was empty.

The three who had left came back in with a stretcher taken from the hall of the wounded, and Tíniel left the window to help them lift Borund's body onto it. Aragorn watched helplessly as they lifted him onto their shoulders and began the long march back through Edoras and to their camp.

* * *

 **It's with great sadness that I put this chapter up. Borund was such a kind, funny, gentle guy, and he deserved so much better than to be doomed to a painful death. Damn you, story plan.**

 **I also want to acknowledge (especially for my canon-aware readers – yep, looking at you, pineapple pancake...) that in the books there was no night of celebration in Edoras. But never fear: the action shall continue next chapter, along with tidbits for my Tíniel-Aragorn shippers.**

 **There is also cause for celebration: this is the thirtieth chapter of _The Rómentári_ , and it's been over a year since I began publishing. Bloody good effort everyone. As a marker of this auspicious day, all readers are begged to review. Peace out and stay tuned.**

 **S**


	31. The Passing of the Grey Company

**31 — THE PASSING OF THE GREY COMPANY**

* * *

The smoke from Borund's pyre was still spiralling lazily into the sky when they began their march the next day. Tíniel kept her head high despite her heavy heart; hundreds of people had sung for him, their voices winding together in mournful harmonies where just the day before they had been wild and joyful.

 _May the gods carry you gently…_

Wake up, she told herself. There was no time for grief. She had to forget her dead. Trying to take her mind off the events of the night before, she glanced behind her. The _bamyë_ was setting a good pace, the strong helping the weak along. She saw two young women wheeling one of the elders along in a wheelbarrow they'd been lent by someone in Edoras.

The great, winding train of people was flanked by _variag_ for protection, and at its head was a strange group of people. Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli had agreed to march with them. Mugura was chattering eagerly to a bemused Legolas while Gimli tried and failed to discuss the finer points of axemanship with Petakh.

Tíniel, Tcharum and Aragorn walked together in silence through the day. Every now and then, Tcharum would dash the tears from his eyes. The third time he did it, the day was drawing to a close. Tíniel caught his hand in hers and held it tightly.

"Sorry," he said, and she shook her head.

"You're allowed to cry."

"I don't want to. But I keep thinking of him. How I failed him."

"Me too," she said. She fought the choking thickness that was making its way up her throat. "But we must be strong. If we fail, there is nobody left, and we cannot abandon our tribe."

" _Tcharand bamyë_ ," he sniffed.

"And _tcharand khopyë_ ," she finished for him, squeezing his hand. "We will save our grief for later. Then we can cry together."

He took a deep breath and nodded firmly. "I think I will go check the scouts," he said. "I'll be back." Tíniel nodded. She knew it didn't need to be done, but she let him go.

"Is he… alright?" Aragorn asked, glancing at Tcharum's retreating back.

"He is as you would expect," she said neutrally. "So am I. Can we speak of something different?"

"Of course." He hesitated. "What… what do you want to talk about?"

She frowned. "I don't know. What do we usually talk about?"

He blinked. "I think – I think we usually talk about how we're going to stay alive."

Her mouth quirked upward. "I mean, talk when we're not in a life-or-death situation."

"We don't, really."

"Don't what?"

"Talk. We don't talk about anything, because we are always trying to stay alive, or avoid each other, or… you know."

"Oh," she said. "How strange."

There was a beat of silence, and he couldn't help but smile. "We have a chance now," he said. "Tell me about your family."

"Alright," she said, and thought for a moment. "I suppose I must begin with my father."

"He was the chief of your tribe before you, was he not?"

"He was. He was a good Khondyë, but a harsh man. His name was Rovekh, and he was rarely kind to me." She saw Aragorn frown, and she shrugged. "I think it is because I killed my mother. Tcharum he loved dearly."

"You did not kill your mother."

"A grieving man will search for something to blame," she said. "For my father, that was me."

"What was your mother's name?" Aragorn asked.

"Her name was Mavaru," Tíniel replied softly. "I like to imagine that she looked like me. I imagine her gentle, and kind, and quick to laughter. The elders tell me she was a good fighter."

"If her daughter is anything to judge by, I believe it."

She smiled. "She watches over us now. My father too." She looked up at the sky. "I hope you have forgiven me, _Vadrë_ ," she said into the air. "I loved you well, though I never said it." She looked back down again. Some part of her felt lighter, and she sighed.

"What of your brother then?" Aragorn asked.

"Tcharum is the best man I know. He is loyal beyond reckoning, brave, good. I always was envious of him when we were younger."

"Is he married?"

"No. He had a betrothed, but she died when she was a little child in one of Gondor's raids. And since then, he never…" she shrugged.

"But if neither of you marry, the bloodline will end," he said, puzzled.

Tiniel paused, then shrugged again. "If there remains a world to live in once all of this is over, then perhaps one of us will wed. But we hardly need think of it now."

He hummed in agreement and she smiled. "How odd speak of such small things with you!"

He gave a half-smile back. "I like it."

"Me too. Tell me about your family."

"Well. My mother and father watch over us as do yours. I am an only child, with no brothers or sisters save those I adopted."

"Elladan and Elrohir," she remembered. "Strange brothers to have, especially for a mortal man."

"Strange can be good," he said, and she smiled.

He had been about to go on, but there was a cry from behind them. They both whirled to see Tcharum galloping at full tilt toward them.

"Tchakhura!" he cried, reigning in the horse as he reached them. "Riders, approaching from behind! They are gaining quickly and will be upon us in minutes!"

She swore under her breath. "How many?"

"The scouts counted at least thirty. They are fully armed."

"Northmen or orcs?"

"They are men, but we have never seen their dress before."

She nodded quickly, trying to think. "Get me a horse!" She called. "Prepare to fight, but do not attack. I must try to speak with them first." Quickly, she turned to Aragorn. "Riders, men, approaching from our rear. Come with me."

She galloped to the back of the train, Aragorn and Tcharum hot on her heels. Just as they arrived, the riders did too. The last rays of the setting sun showed that they wore grey, hooded cloaks, fastened at the shoulder with a silver pin in the shape of a star.

Tíniel dismounted and showed her palms as a sign of peace, breathing hard from the ride. One among them, perhaps their leader, dismounted too. They walked toward each other, then stopped ten paces apart.

"Who are you to ride freely through Rohan?" she asked him warily.

"Rohan?" he said. His voice was deep, and his accent Northern. "That is glad news indeed. We have ridden hard for many days, seeking this place. But we expected to find Riders, not a band of Haradrim!"

"And you have found neither," she replied drily. "I am Tchakhura Khondyë, chief of this tribe – this _Khandi_ tribe. And still you have not answered my question."

He bowed slightly. "Forgive me lady. I am weary. My name is Halbarad Dúnadan, a Ranger of the North. My company and I seek our comrade named Aragorn, for we heard he was in Rohan."

"And you have found him!" Aragorn cried from behind Tíniel, hastily dismounting, running over and embracing the Ranger. "How glad I am to see you, Halbarad! Of all the joys…" he turned back to face her. "All is well. Better than well! These men are my kin from the North." He looked back at Halbarad, who had removed his hood. "How many are you?"

"I brought with me thirty men, which was all I could gather at short notice," Halbarad replied. "Well – twenty-nine men and my sister, who will never be left behind."

Tíniel looked up and saw a tall woman astride her horse behind Halbarad. She grinned at them, and Aragorn smiled back. "Hello, Dessa."

"Well met, Aragorn," she said. "Never fear; I am as good as three men. And we have brought Elladan and Elrohir too."

Two tall figures dismounted gracefully and made their way forward too. They spoke to Aragorn in what Tíniel recognised as an Elvish tongue. After a moment, Elrohir – she thought – turned toward her.

"Well met again, princess," he said. "I see you have found some of what you lost."

She glanced back at her thousands of people, and the rows of _variag_ quietly posed for combat behind her. "You could say that," she replied wryly. Then she turned to Tcharum. "Tell them to stand down. These are friends of Aragorn's, no danger to us."

He nodded. "I will order camp made here tonight. We have marched long and hard enough, and the sun has set."

"Good." She turned back to the Elf, who was watching her with one corner of his mouth turned up. "We will make camp now," she said, now in Westron. "Come to my tent; there we can speak in more comfort, and with food."

She thanked the gods that her _patchi_ was high-roofed and spacious, for otherwise it would have been a cramped meeting. Petakh and Tcharum sat on cushions at her left, Petakh whispering translations into Tcharum's ear as the others talked. Legolas and Gimli were at her left, and opposite her were Aragorn, Elladan, Elrohir, Halbarad and his sister Dessa. One of the fire-tenders had come with Khandi spiced flatbreads, and Tíniel watched with faint amusement as the men tasted them gingerly.

"We were summoned here," Halbarad was saying, "though we know not by who."

"I sent no summons your way except wistful thoughts," Aragorn said. "Who might have sent it?"

"Gandalf sent it, no doubt," Gimli said. "There is much to read in that book, and we've all only seen a few pages."

"Nay; the Lady Galadriel," Legolas countered. "Does she not read hearts and desires from afar?"

"Ah, you have it, Legolas!" Gimli agreed excitedly. "Why did we not wish for some of our own kinsfolk then?"

The Ranger and the two other Elves watched the exchange bewilderedly.

"A strange friendship, yes," Aragorn said. "But I have found it is best not to ask questions. Did you bring any tidings from the North?"

"Some small news from Rivendell," Elladan – probably – said. "Arwen has left for the Undying Lands." Aragorn merely nodded at this, and Elladan continued. "My father sends word. He says to you: _Either our hope cometh, or all hope's end. The days are short. If thou art in haste, remember the Paths of the Dead._ "

Aragorn's face darkened immediately. "I will truly have no choice before I choose that course," he said tightly.

There was a silence, and Tíniel felt her curiosity grow along with her fear for him. What were the Paths of the Dead? But the silence stretched on, and she decided to break it.

"What of your path?" she addressed Halbarad. "Do you follow Aragorn to this place, should he go?"

"My company and I shall go wherever Aragorn commands," Halbarad replied.

"And he should command sooner rather than later, if he is able," Dessa added, looking at Aragorn significantly. "The Enemy marches."

"Very well. If you are willing…" she trailed off, suddenly feeling a chill come over her. It deepened steadily, and with it suddenly blossomed horror and despair. She looked up and saw that she wasn't the only one who felt it.

"Nazgûl," Legolas whispered. Tíniel leapt to her feet and in a few short strides, exited the _patchi_. She looked about. The darkness of the early night had somehow thickened, and it was cold. She drew in a sharp breath and turned her gaze upward without knowing why.

At that moment, a vast shadow blotted out the starlight. Tíniel fell to her knees, suddenly overcome by excruciating waves of grief and desolation. And then, just like that, it was gone.

"Princess," came a warm voice by her ear. She jerked he head away, breathing hard, but there was no danger. It was Legolas.

"I… I do not know… what happened," she mumbled, trying to regain control of her senses.

"Your grief is too near, and the wraith feeds upon it," he replied gently. "Think no more on the creature. It is gone on its way to Isengard and will not be back for a time."

"Until it finds Orthanc empty and returns to its master," she said, taking his hand and allowing him to pull her to her feet. "We can stay here no longer. The war is breathing down our necks, and on the road my people are exposed. That, at least, is clear."

As she spoke, the rest of the men filed out of the tent, Petakh and Tcharum at the rear. "I want to move on," she told them in Khandi. "Even if that beast was not looking for us, it saw us. We are in danger. The sooner we get to Minas Tirith, the better."

"No time for sleep then," Tcharum said with only a hint of regret. "Petakh, come. We rouse the _bamyë_."

They left, and Legolas raised his eyebrows at her in an unspoken question.

"They are waking the tribe," she said. "Though no one has had long enough to sleep. But I will not stay here in the open like a target asking to be hit. The march to Minas Tirith is long, and we shall do it without rest. If any of you are of a mind to come with us, you are welcome."

There was a beat of silence, then she turned to Gimli and Legolas, her eyebrows raised. They both hesitated, their eyes on Aragorn.

"I'm no ranger, princess, but I'll follow wherever Aragorn chooses to go," Gimli said finally. "If he chooses Minas Tirith, then aye, we're with you."

She looked to Aragorn questioningly, but he refused to meet her eye. "I need… I need time," he said slowly, his voice agonised. "I know we do not have much of it, but… give me an hour. Please."

Tíniel frowned slightly. He looked torn; she knew his face well enough to recognise the conflict playing out beneath the mask of calm.

"An hour," she agreed.

* * *

It felt like the longest hour of her life. She paced back and forth in front of her _patchi_ , ignoring the concerned looks from her brother and the pointed glances from Legolas and Gimli.

"Is all well with you, princess?" the latter called out.

"All is well with _me_ , yes. But why _he_ would take so long to make a clear-cut decision, I cannot understand."

"Clear cut?" Gimli frowned. "How so? How is this an easy decision for him to make?"

"Because he is choosing between Minas Tirith and the Paths of the Dead!" she paused in her pacing to snap at him. "It is a choice between life and almost certain death! I could have made the choice for him in an instant."

"It is not so simple," Legolas interjected. "You are not the only one who has prophecies made about them, Tchakhura Khondyë." She raised an eyebrow at his near-perfect pronunciation, and he shrugged. "That boy Mugura taught me."

She sighed and resumed her pacing, remembering the shadows in Aragorn's eyes when he'd asked for an hour to decide. "Prophecies are evil," she mumbled. "I wish Gandalf were here. He has come back to life only to leave us alone again."

"Can you not trust in Aragorn to decide for himself?" Halbarad spoke up from where he was sitting next to his sister, who was sharpening her sword with a whetstone. "He has enough wisdom of his own to do right."

Tíniel strode to the end of her path and whirled to pace back the other way. "Of course I do not trust him to make the right choice," she said angrily. "He will choose what is best for everyone else but him! He will think of every reason to put his own life in danger for someone else before he sees a reason to save himself!"

"So you think he will choose the Paths, then?" Gimli asked quietly.

She nodded tiredly. "Of course he will choose the Paths," she said. "He hesitates now because he is afraid. But fear has never stopped him."

Dessa ran the whetstone down the length of her blade again. "You seem to know very well the workings of Aragorn's mind," she said curiously. "And you seem eager for him to march with you."

Legolas and Gimli suddenly seemed extraordinarily interested in their boots. Tíniel paused in her tracks and cleared her throat uncomfortably. "I travelled with him for a time," she said, trying to make it sound casual and unconcerned. "We have become friends."

Halbarad tugged at his cloak. "Close friends, it seems," he replied, and Tíniel somehow felt that his grey eyes saw straight through her half-truths.

"Tell me of the Paths of the Dead," she said, quickly changing the subject. "Can the living walk such a road and come out unharmed? For I have heard otherwise."

"Since the coming of the Rohirrim, the Paths have been closed to the living," Halbarad answered slowly. "None have taken it, nor even dared to consider it. But in the days of Arvedui, the last king of Fornost, there was a seer named Malbeth."

"The prophecy," she guessed, and he nodded. Dessa began reciting, her voice deep and strangely powerful.

" _The Tower trembles; to the tombs of kings  
doom approaches. The Dead awaken;  
for the hour is come for the oathbreakers.  
Who shall call them, the forgotten people?  
The heir of him to whom the oath they swore:  
He shall pass the door to the Paths of the Dead."_

She paused, and her voice went back to normal. "Those were Malbeth's words."

"Dark words indeed," Tíniel said, her dismay growing.

"I hope the forgotten people have not forgotten how to fight," said Gimli, "otherwise I don't see why we should bother disturbing them."

"What was the oath they broke?" Legolas asked.

"To fight against Sauron," came a voice from outside the circle of lantern light, and Aragorn stepped forward. "And if they are to fulfil it, they must fight him now. We may be their last chance." Halbarad, Dessa, Legolas, Gimli and Tcharum got to their feet as he approached them, and Tíniel stopped her pacing.

"It does not follow that they _deserve_ a chance," she pleaded quietly.

His eyes met hers, grim and filled with a mixture of pain and fear. "Everyone deserves a chance," he answered, just as quietly. "And we need every fighter we can get. I will walk the Paths of the Dead."

Gimli sucked in a long breath, and Legolas' eyes flickered. "So be it," the Elf said. "We are with you."

"As is the Grey Company," Halbarad said, sheathing his sword. "Let us leave as soon as may be. The doorway to the Paths is at Dunharrow."

Aragorn nodded slowly. "Then ready the Company. I will come." His eyes alighted on Tíniel again and he sighed. "But I would speak with you before I leave, if you can spare the time," he said.

She inclined her head stiffly toward her _patchi_ , which had not yet been folded away. He followed her inside and they stood opposite each other. She couldn't keep silent for long.

"Why have you chosen such a path, Aragorn?" she said miserably, wringing her hands. "We have spoken several times of hope, but on that road, there is none."

"Perhaps there might be, if I go," he replied gently. "But I didn't come here to be dissuaded. I came to give you this."

From inside his Elvish cloak he drew her dark red _vadi_ , twisted multiple times around something.

"That is mine," she said. "How did you come to –" her breath caught in her throat as she remembered what had been wrapped inside. "The palantír."

"Yes. Gandalf gave it to me when he left with Pippin. And just now, when I went off alone, I looked in it."

Her heart leapt into her throat. "Aragorn, you fool of a man! What in the name of every god persuaded you to be so fantastically _stupid_ that you would –"

"Keep your voice down," he said, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "The stone belongs to me by right."

"Did you see… _him_?" she breathed.

Aragorn's jaw tightened. "I did. But more importantly, he saw me. He knows now that Isildur's heir lives still, and the Enemy is not so powerful that he is above fear."

"This will only make him strike sooner."

"Yes, but hasty strokes will often go astray," he replied. "We can no longer wait around for him to attack. If we press him… well, then we may have hope. But I did not only see the Enemy when I looked in the stone." He hesitated, rubbing his forehead wearily. She waited for him to go on.

"I saw ships, tens of them, perhaps hundreds, coming up the Anduin from the South. From Umbar."

"Corsairs," she whispered. "They flew black sails?"

"They did. This could be disastrous, Tíniel. A threatening force coming up through South Gondor will divert hundreds of troops, troops we cannot afford to lose."

The realisation dawned on her. "But if you cut through the mountains, take the Paths of the Dead…"

"Exactly."

She shook her head. "It is a fool's hope, a candle in a world of darkness. Even if you come out the other side alive, there will be a hard ride between you and Pelargir."

"It is better than the alternative," he said. "But you are right. There is a chance – a great chance – that I will fail to return, and that the Corsairs will continue through Gondor. You must warn Denethor when you reach Minas Tirith."

She nodded, trying to ignore the fact that they'd both just calmly referenced his likely impending death. "I will."

"And I want you to take this with you," he added, handing her the wrapped seeing-stone. "Do not use it or even touch it. But take it for me, in the faith that I will come back."

She felt a lump rise in her throat, and she tried to speak through it. "I will take it as a promise, then."

"Not as a promise," he said. "Take it as a hope."

She placed the palantír carefully down on one of the cushions. "Funny. Both times I have journeyed to Minas Tirith, I have brought with me a palantír."

"Funny," he replied, his weary face softening as he watched her. They stood in silence for a moment, and Tíniel felt her face warm as his eyes flicked over her. He reached out, and the very tips of his fingers brushed across her cheek, over her chin, and then faintly, so faintly that she almost thought she imagined it, across her lips –

She drew in a sharp breath and stepped back. "Not now," she said quietly, her voice not belying her racing heart. "Please don't do that now. Not after Borund…" she trailed off, but he nodded. She saw a faint flicker of sadness deep in his eyes.

"Khondyë!" came a call from outside, and she sighed in relief.

"I am coming!" she answered in Khandi. "Prepare to leave directly!"

Aragorn gave a wry half-smile. "Ever we are conspired against by the world, it seems," he said. "But we have delayed long enough. Farewell, Tíniel. Goodbye for now."

She nodded somewhat woodenly. "For now," she echoed, and they left the tent.

* * *

They set out into the night, one group heading to Dunharrow and the other to Gondor. Their farewells had been short; she smiled when Mugura bade a fond farewell to Legolas, but Tíniel didn't see her brother clasping hands with Aragorn.

"Will we be as well received in Gondor as we were in Rohan?" Tcharum asked, and Tíniel didn't miss the bitter edge to his voice when he said the name of the kingdom that had been the Maruvikh tribe's greatest enemy.

"No," Tíniel said with little doubt. "No, we will not. At best, they will turn us away. At worst, they will openly attack us."

Petakh drew in a breath beside her. "Not good odds."

"No."

"No matter," Tcharum said resolutely. "We will fight Mekakhond from Minas Tirith, or we will fight him from somewhere else. Those are the two ways in which this can end."

Both women regarded him with some surprise. "You do not care that Gondor has routinely raided and unjustly slaughtered our tribespeople since before our birth?" Tíniel asked.

He jutted out his chin, just as she knew she did when she was in thought. "I do care. I care more than I care about most things. But what did Vadrë always say? The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

"Gondor and Mekakhond," Petakh mused. "Which is the enemy, and which the friend?"

Tcharum didn't answer, and they walked on into the night.

* * *

 **Merry Christmas, happy Hanukkah, joyful holidays to you all! I had my first ever white Christmas, but sadly it was white from smoke rather than snow. Nevertheless – I hope you found something to bring you joy.**

 **Something certainly brought _me_ joy: the fact that _The Rómentári_ now has over two hundred reviews. A million thanks to all of you, for the loveliest gift I could have hoped for!**

 **We might catch a glimpse of the Paths of the Dead next chapter, but here's an early fun fact: Aragorn actually led thirty rangers to the Paths, not only Legolas and Gimli. And unfortunately for them, the River wasn't right in front of them when they got out. And unfortunately for me, there was no mad skull tsunami.**

 **But I won't give too much away before next chapter. Please review! Until then, I remain**

 **Faithfully yours**

 **S**


	32. A Storm is Coming

**32 — A STORM IS COMING**

* * *

Pippin felt more jolted than he ever had in all his short life, and he'd been hoisted over the shoulder of an Uruk-hai who would never be called a smooth runner. It wasn't that Gandalf's horse Shadowfax wasn't a good one – in fact, Pippin would go so far as to call him one of the best – but the fact of the matter was that hobbits simply were not meant for gallivanting around on horseback like the Big Folk.

He'd still somehow managed to doze, though. Merry had always said he'd had three talents: eating, smoking and snoring. And Gandalf had wrapped his cloak around him so that he didn't get cold. For all the grumbling the wizard did, he was a kindly old man at heart.

He nudged Pippin fully awake now as dawn spilled over the grassy plain.

"Look, Pippin," he said over the thunder of Shadowfax's hooves. "The White City."

Pippin's mouth fell open as he beheld Minas Tirith. It seemed to grow out of the mountain, like some kind of shining, enormous, layered mushroom. The thought made his stomach rumble.

Shadowfax closed the distance in mere minutes, but they slowed as they approached the gates. A guard dressed in black and white strode out to meet them, and the gates swung shut behind him. Pippin noticed that he had only one hand.

"Hail, strangers!" he cried. "Why come you to the City in such haste?"

"Not so strange, if your memory is long enough and your eyes sharp enough," Gandalf replied. "I am Gandalf, and I come to warn your lord of danger."

"It is an interesting warning," the guard said, pointing to the East with his good hand. "But I'm afraid we'd already guessed at it ourselves."

Pippin swivelled in the saddle to look over to the mountains of Mordor and caught his breath when he saw a huge cloud of darkness billowing toward them.

"Oh dear," he murmured.

The guard's eyes alighted on him, and his brow furrowed. "What creature is this?" he asked.

Pippin sniffed haughtily, turning back to face the front. "This _creature_ is intelligent enough to answer questions addressed to his face, if you please!" He heard Gandalf's quiet snort behind him, but he ignored it and went on. "I am a hobbit – or a halfling, if you like, though we rarely do things by halves. I was a companion to Boromir of Minas Tirith, before he – he fell in battle."

Gandalf made an irritated sound, and immediately Pippin knew he'd said something wrong. "Keep your words a little closer, Pippin. It is not from your mouth that the death of their captain should be heard."

Pippin opened his mouth to apologise, but was silenced by the flash of pure, agonised grief that passed over the guard's face. It disappeared just as quickly.

"It matters little, for that much had already been guessed," he said stiffly. "My name is Ingold. If you are who you say, I shall take you into the City."

Understanding broke out on Gandalf's face. "Ah," he said, the old twinkle back in his eye. "Ingold of the Guard. I have heard one or two things about you, from friends of mine."

Ingold stiffened, but merely knocked on the gate for it to be opened. "You… you travelled with Captain Boromir, yes?" he asked neutrally.

"Yes," Pippin answered, his courage returning swiftly as the conversation returned to something he understood. "And with his companion, Tíniel. She also hailed from this city. Do you know of her?"

At this, Ingold looked up sharply. "There are few who do not know of her," he said. Still, his voice was carefully neutral. "Do you know if she… is she…"

"She lived, last we saw her," Gandalf said, "and that was not long ago."

Ingold physically sagged with relief, and the smallest of smiles graced his grim face. "That is well," he said. "Perhaps she will return. I hope her path will lead back to Minas Tirith one day."

"Sooner than you think," Gandalf replied, "and with company. Keep your eyes on the road to Rohan, my friend."

"With company?" Ingold mused. "Any number will be welcome in these times, provided they are sturdy of heart and can wield a blade. The darkness hastens toward us."

"And so must we to the Steward!" Gandalf declared. Pippin knew that tone of his voice; he had tired if the conversation. Obligingly, Ingold increased his pace, and the poor hobbit had to trot alongside them to keep up. It was a long way up to the first circle.

* * *

They rode like the very wind. Aragorn's hair streamed back in the wind as they galloped South, and despite his fatigue, he revelled in the feeling of Roheryn beneath him. They had been parted too long, and he was grateful that Halbarad had thought to bring his old horse from the North.

To his left rode Elrohir and Elladan, sitting lightly in their saddles, exhilaration written beneath the ever-present calm on their Elvish faces. To his right, Gimli bounced along behind Legolas. Behind them were the thirty Dúnedain that Halbarad had brought, their grey cloaks billowing as they galloped.

And behind _them_ …

Suffice to say, his walk on the Paths of the Dead had been successful. Never had he seen his people – nor indeed Gimli – so deeply fearful as they had been the hours they walked through the darkness. But he had called, and they had answered.

And now they followed.

"Pelargir!" Elladan and Elrohir called to him as one, pointing ahead. Aragorn squinted into the distance, but all he was able to make out was the faint glitter of the Anduin.

"What is upon the water?" Legolas called from his right. "I see specks… black specks!"

Aragorn held up a fist, and the Company – and whatever followed – thundered to a stop.

"The Corsairs!" he panted. "The specks are Corsairs." He wheeled Roheryn to face his men. And his ghosts, he supposed.

"Ready your blades!" he cried, the wind carrying his voice. "To you, the Oathbreakers, I say this: I will hold your promise fulfilled when this land is cleaned of the minions of Sauron! And here are the first! After me!"

The Company cried out with him, and they galloped down the long slopes to the Great River.

Unfortunately, the pirates saw them coming. The second they were within range, the great black-sailed drummonds had anchored and were launching cannon balls toward the riders. Most sailed over their heads and fell somewhere amid the host of wraiths, but Aragorn didn't pause to see what effect they had.

"Now!" he roared, and just as the rangers' horses splashed into the shallows of the Anduin, they reigned themselves in. No worldly horse could walk on water, but luckily for Aragorn, most of his army was decidedly _other_ worldly. The army of the Dead rushed past them, and the Rangers watched with morbid fascination as the ghosts did all the hard work for them.

Only when the last of the pirates' screams were drowned in the Anduin did the ghost army stop.

"Well, that was awful," Dessa said cheerfully.

* * *

Pippin sat bleakly outside the throne room. It had been awful. He knew he'd gone and made a mess of it, though Gandalf had told him he'd done as well as could be expected. But Gandalf had always had very low expectations of him, he reasoned.

He stood up quickly when a tall man dressed in the uniform of the guards approached him and bowed.

"Good morning to you," the man said. "Are you the Halfling they call Peregrin?"

"Hobbit, and Pippin," he corrected. "But yes, that is me. And who are you?"

"My name is Beregond," the man said. "I've been assigned to take you about and teach you all the passwords while I am off duty, since you are sworn to our Steward."

"Ah," Pippin replied, drooping a little. He had a feeling that he was going to regret that particular oath.

"Chin up, now," Beregond said kindly. "He is not so cruel a master, and in such times as these I do not think his notice will fall often on you. Come!"

Beregond was kind, and to Pippin's relief, their first stop was to the soldier's mess where they were each given apples and bread. They sat up on a wall overlooking the plains beneath the city, and as they ate, Beregond told Pippin all the passwords he needed to tell the guards if he wished to pass the gates between the circles.

"It seems strange to have passwords for so small a thing," Pippin remarked. "What of ordinary people? Must they stay forever in the circle they are born?"

Beregond laughed. "Perhaps they would, if this was our practice all the time. But we only require passwords in certain circumstances." He looked out East and his expression darkened. "Times like these."

Pippin followed his eyeline, and the apples turned sour in his stomach. The mountains of Mordor sat on the Eastern horizon, black and ominous. But what drew Pippin's gaze was the billowing black cloud he had seen earlier. As he watched, it blotted out the sun and made it seem as though dusk was falling, though it was only late morning.

He wondered where Merry was, and if he saw the darkness too.

"I will have to leave you soon, for my duty begins at midday," Beregond said quietly, watching the hobbit with a measure of pity. "But I will bring you to someone who will keep you company if you would like."

"Yes, please," Pippin replied gratefully. "I'm a stranger to everyone here but Gandalf, and he is too occupied with great matters to bother with the likes of me."

"Wizards are strange creatures," Beregond agreed, and they left the wall.

Beregond took Pippin to a courtyard where a large group of boys were playing some kind of game. He pointed to one of the taller ones who was sprinting around the courtyard with fervour.

"My son," he said, with a touch of pride. "He can show you wherever you wish to go." Then he raised his voice. "Bergil!"

The boy stopped in his tracks, his face lighting up at the sound of his father's voice. He jogged over to meet them, watching Pippin with interest.

"Hello, father!" he said, breathless and red-faced. "I thought you would be on duty by now."

"I shall be in a moment," Beregond replied. "But first I have found you a new friend. This is Pippin. He is new to Minas Tirith, and in the Guard. I want you to keep him company and take him where he wishes to go." Swiftly, he planted a kiss on top of the boy's head. "I will see you tonight."

With that, he turned and left. Bergil looked critically down at Pippin. "You seem small to be in the Guard," he said. "Why, I could easily knock you down if I tried."

Pippin fought a smile. "I wouldn't be so sure," he countered. "I've knocked down enough sturdy fighters in my time to be sure of myself. Anyhow, where I'm from, I am not considered small in the least."

Bergil looked unimpressed. "Well, how old are you then?" he asked. "You must be younger than me, for I am almost a foot taller. And I am nine years old."

Pippin smirked. "Well I am _twenty_ -nine, so make of that what you will."

Bergil looked as though he couldn't decide whether to be impressed or disbelieving. In the end, he simply changed the subject. "I am to show you around, I suppose," he said. "Where do you wish to go?"

"I'd like to have another look East," Pippin said, his mind going back to the great cloud of darkness and his mood dropping. "Is there somewhere we could do that?"

"The best view is from the circle below us," Bergil said, "but I suppose we cannot go there. The gates are locked to everyone."

"Suppose again," Pippin said, "and take me to the gate!"

Bergil was suitably impressed when Pippin gave the password to the guard to let them into the lower circle, and seemed more willing to like the hobbit. They went to the vantage point and looked out at the gathering gloom.

"What a miserable sight," Pippin said, sighing despondently.

"What is that?" Bergil asked suddenly, peering down at the Pelennor Fields. Pippin followed his gaze and caught his breath.

In the distance, four horsemen were galloping toward the city as though they were being pursued by death itself.

"Oh! Open the gates! Open the gates!" Bergil cried. Far below them, in the seventh circle, Pippin saw that it was being done.

"Who are they?" he asked. "And what are they trying to run from?"

"It is Captain Faramir and his men, without a doubt," Bergil said urgently. "Coming back from Cair Andros. But as for what they are escaping – _oh._ "

He was cut off as a wave of distant dread suddenly washed over them. Pippin frowned as fear spiked through him. He remembered this feeling, though he couldn't quite place it…

At that moment, the black clouds parted and the beast descended.

"A Black Rider!" Pippin exclaimed in horror. Its steed flapped its huge wings, and with terrifying speed, it dove toward the riders. Then, like crows toward carrion, four more Nazgûl dropped out of the clouds after it.

"They're not going to make it," Bergil realised, his young voice despairing. "They aren't close enough."

"They might," Pippin said desperately, his eyes on the riders. One of them seemed to have succumbed to the despair radiating from the five quickly gaining Nazgûl above him, and his horse had slowed to a mere walk. One of the galloping horses wheeled and went back for him.

"That is the Captain," Bergil breathed. "He will never leave a man behind."

They were doomed, Pippin thought. Faramir grabbed the reigns of the walking horse and roused it and its rider back into a gallop. But they were too late; the Black Rider was almost upon them…

"There is Gandalf!" Bergil cried, and Pippin looked down to see a white rider on a white horse, galloping out to meet the enemy. He raised his staff, and it seemed to catch the last ray of sunlight and throw it back up like a spear to meet the Nazgûl. They shrieked, the sound sending shivers down Pippin's spine. They wheeled in the air like vultures, and one by one, they retreated back into the black cloud.

Bergil let out a whoop and leapt from his seat, pumping his fist into the air. "Victory to the White City!" he bellowed.

"Who can say for how long," Pippin said grimly.

Bergil shrugged, unconcerned. "The Captain is back now, so things are looking up," he said with certainty. "Come with me, and perhaps we may catch him riding up to the Tower!"

* * *

Aragorn stood at the prow of one of the ships. They were making good time up the Anduin, but he still feared they would be too late. It was good that they'd prevented the Corsairs from ravaging South Gondor, but to miss the battle… Halbarad seemed to sense his unrest.

"At the very least, we have overcome the Corsair fleet," he reassured. "That is one less enemy Gondor has to fight."

Aragorn smiled tightly. "I know," he said. "But I will be happier when we get back."

"When you get back… into the arms of your beloved?" Halbarad suggested.

Aragorn gave him a long look. "No beloved waits for me in Minas Tirith."

"I see," Halbarad returned. "Does that mean she is free for the taking? For she's an impressive woman, and not ugly either."

"Can we leave it be?"

"I'm just _saying_ , if you don't want her, someone else might. So you'd best lay claim."

"I haven't seen you for months, Halbarad, and the first opportunity we have to talk you've decided to lecture me on women."

"No one was ever in need of a good lecture on the subject more than you, my friend," Halbarad said with a grin. "Now, as for your choice in women: Arwen was strange enough, but I never imagined you'd go for a Khandi warlord. Or war-lady?"

"Warlord isn't the word I'd use," Aragorn said drily.

"So you admit it!" Halbarad said victoriously. "Not that everyone doesn't know already. The way you stare at her… and when you two disappeared into her tent the other night to _talk_ –"

Aragorn was saved from replying by a breathless Dessa.

"Would you two pay attention for once?" she said. "While your mothers' meeting was going on, we are being pursued by a Corsair."

Aragorn and Halbarad immediately turned to scan the river behind them. Sure enough, there was a black-sailed drommond quickly gaining on them.

"Easy," Aragorn said. "We send the ghosts to clean them up, and maintain our route."

"Not so simple," Dessa said. "They're flying a white flag. They want to parley."

Aragorn ground his teeth at the delay. "Fine," he said shortly. "I'll speak with them. And this had better be quick, or Valar have mercy on them all."

The pirates were a curious lot. They certainly _looked_ like pirates; their clothes were worn and patched, they were armed to the teeth and their smell was questionable, to put it kindly. But while the other ships had been organised according to race or tribe, this one seemed to be a mixture of many. Men with black skin, white skin and all shades between manned the ship. And on the hull was painted an Elvish name: the _Haedannen_.

"Ahoy!" cried one of them as Aragorn's ship drew alongside it. The pirate that spoke had skin as black as coal, and a faded yellow cloth tied around his head. "If you don't mind me asking, who are you?"

Aragorn frowned slightly, but gave no other sign that the odd question threw him off. "You are not the one to be asking questions here," he said. "Who are you, pirate?"

The man grinned, showing a row of surprisingly white teeth. "You could be a pirate yourself with those manners! I am Harûk, captain of the _Haedannen_." Most of the pirate crew snorted at this statement, and Harûk scowled. A second man, perhaps from Near Harad, stepped forward.

"We are in fact without our captain for the moment," he said. "I am Mahaya. We are not pirates, but we sailed in pursuit of the fleet that you appear to have defeated."

"A single boat sailing in pursuit of an entire fleet?" Aragorn said disbelievingly. "Unlikely."

"Maybe," Harûk drawled. "But also unlikely is the fact that you fought off said entire fleet with an army of green floaty things."

Aragorn glanced behind him at the ghosts. He supposed they had a point.

"We heard stories," the one called Mahaya pressed on, annoyed by his friend's lack of seriousness. "Stories of someone called the Queen of the East." The crew behind him perked up at this, and Aragorn hesitated.

"What about her?"

"We heard she dresses in red, and wields a curved sword," Harûk said. "If the rumours are true, and this Queen of the East exists…" the grin found its way back onto his face.

"Whoever she is, she resembles a friend of ours," Mahaya said. "We've come to find her, and help her. Do you know where she is?"

* * *

They had cheered for Faramir as he rode up the cobbled road to the top of the city. Pippin had caught a glimpse of a face that looked startlingly like Boromir's, and it had shaken him. But in the hours since then, they had milled around with little to do.

That is, until the next cry came from the walls. "The Outlanders are here!"

"Oh!" Bergil said, his face lighting up again. "That is good news! Come, let us watch them march in!"

Pippin had followed him back to their spot, and they had watched as a train of small armies marched up from the South.

'Forlong! Brave heart!' Pippin heard, and he craned his neck to see a man of impressive girth leading an army of two hundred swarthy men.

'That's old Forlong the Fat, lord of Lossanarch,' Bergil said desolately. 'We were hoping for more than ten times that number.'

'There has been word of an enemy fleet taking the Anduin,' an old man beside Pippin said to Bergil. 'Forlong must leave someone behind to defend his land.'

It seemed that the rest of the lords had done likewise, bringing only a tithe of their strength. There were three hundred from the Ringló Vale with their lord Dervorin, five hundred bowmen from the uplands of Morthond behind Duinhir and his sons, a few hastily assembled and badly equipped villagers from the household of Golasgil, a few grim hillmen from Lamedon, and a hundred fishermen from Ethir. Bergil pointed out his two favourites: Hirluin the Fair of Pinnath Gelin, followed by three hundred green-clad soldiers, and Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, who led a company of knights and seven hundred foot-soldiers, all tall and dark-haired.

It seemed that this lot was the last, and at that, Bergil's face fell a little.  
"Less than three thousand all told," he said. "That is less than we hoped for, and even less than we need."

Pippin's spirits sank as well. He had hoped fervently that Rohan would send a number to help them, but he knew it was unlikely so soon after their battle at the Hornburg.

"Oh well," he said with false brightness. "We shall simply make do with what we have."

They turned away from the wall, but just as they did, another cry went up. Bergil looked over his shoulder and squinted. "What is that in the distance?" he said.

They returned to the wall, and Pippin narrowed his eyes to try and see better. There was something – or someone – coming up the road from Rohan.

"Could it be the Riders after all?" Bergil said, the excitement back in a flash. "But no – this lot is on foot, and certainly not wearing green."

"Can you hear that sound?" Pippin asked him.

The wind swept across the fields and into their faces, bringing with it the faint sound of a great number of voices.

"Is that singing?" Bergil asked. "Surely not. Who sings in such a way?"

"And who are they?" Pippin wondered.

It was agony to wait while the great host crept nearer. As time passed, the sound of singing grew louder. It was a tune that neither of them recognised, in words that they didn't know, but as they listened to it, excitement and determination crept into their hearts.

"Why, I feel as if I could march right into Mordor myself!" Pippin exclaimed, drawing his short sword.

"A battle song," Bergil agreed with equal enthusiasm. "Look how many of them there are! Thousands and thousands!"

They waited with growing impatience. The song grew louder and more invigorating, and the army drew closer. It wasn't until guards began running past them, down to the lower levels, that they realised something was wrong.

"Bergil!' came a voice, and Pippin looked up to see a woman running toward them.

"Mama!" he said. "What is happening?"

The woman eyed Pippin, but merely nodded at him. "They say that this is the first of the attacks," she said, her voice level. "That army is not of Gondor, Bergil, but the East. It has begun."

"And father?"

"He will go to fight them if he is ordered, of course," she said, this time her voice betraying a little more emotion. "That is his duty. But come, away from the walls! We are going home." Her eyes went back to Pippin. "You can bring your friend if you like."

Bergil dug his heels in. "Please, Mama, let us watch a little longer. They are not so near yet! Please?"

The woman hesitated, and Pippin could see that she herself was curious to see the enemy that her husband would soon face.

"Fine," she said shortly. "But the _second_ I tell you to go, you must go." She turned to Pippin and bowed with her hand to her heart, as was the way in Gondor. "I am Anita," she said.

"Pippin," he returned, and they all turned to watch the army approach.

* * *

The walls were armed like she had never seen them before. Repairs and reinforcements had been made, and every inch of them was covered in archers. Tíniel felt rather than saw that most of them were pointed at her.

She held up a fist, and behind her the tribe stopped their march. For a moment, she allowed them to continue their song. With Denethor, every action carried meaning, and she wanted this song to show that she wasn't afraid. But after a moment, she raised her hand again, and silence fell.

She sat on her horse directly before the gates of Minas Tirith. About twenty yards behind her, Tcharum and Petakh were mounted too. And behind them, on foot, were seven thousand Maruvikh.

She let the silence continue, not wanting to be the one to speak first. She knew that she had to tread carefully here, and her heart beat quickly.

But her fears turned out to be unfounded.

"Who goes there?" came a cry from the wall at last. Tíniel scanned it until she saw who spoke, and she grinned and unwound her _vadi_.

"Ingold!" she yelled back. "Do you forget me so easily?" She pushed the _vadi_ off her head so he could see her fully, and she saw his eyes widen. Whispers rippled across the wall as the men began to recognise her, and a few lowered their crossbows.

"Tíniel?" he called back. She could hear the note of gladness in his voice that he was trying to cover. "I heard you were coming, and I scarcely believed it. But who comes with you?"

"My army," she replied. "We come in peace, so you can lower your weapons." She raised her voice so more could hear. "Our people have long been enemies, it is true. But the evil we face now is an Enemy to all things that walk freely in Middle-earth. I have come with my people to defend this city from the onslaught that surely comes from the East. Will you have me?"

There were cheers of approval along the wall, and she saw Ingold hide a smile.

"That is not our decision to make," he said, "but our lord's. He will wish to speak with you."

"Then may he speak with haste," Tíniel replied. The gates jolted open a fraction, and the rest of the crossbows were lowered. Tíniel turned and cantered back to Tcharum and Petakh.

"Do you hear those cheers?" she said. "They're for us."

"Desperate times, if Gondorians are cheering for the Maruvikh on their doorstep," Petakh said.

Tíniel smiled wryly. "Desperate times, if the Maruvikh run to Minas Tirith for shelter."

"So they'll let us in?" Tcharum asked, an edge of anxiety to his voice.

"I must speak to their Khondyë to gain us entry. But the people are on our side, that is sure."

"What are our chances?" Tcharum asked.

She hesitated. "I cannot say. The Steward is a strange man. But he would be a fool to turn away our help at this stage."

"We will make do," Petakh said grimly.

"I want you both to come with me," she said. "I will leave Vagura in charge down here, and Mugura to translate if they need."

Tcharum took a deep breath. "Let's do this," he said.

They dismounted and went in through the great gates. Ingold was waiting on the other side, and Tíniel immediately went over to him. He wrapped her in a tight hug.

"By the stars, girl, I missed you more than I thought I would," he said so that only she could hear. "Is it true? About Boromir?"

She tightened her hold on him slightly. "Later," she whispered back. "We will speak of it later."

He nodded and let her go. She stepped back, only to be embraced by Beregond.

"About time you returned," he said, almost lifting her off the ground before letting her go. "Anita has been wild with worry."

She laughed. "She never needs to worry about me," she joked. "I steer clear of all trouble."

He snorted, and she turned to see who else was there. "Targon! How are you?"

The soldier stepped forward and clasped her hand, grinning. "Well enough, and better now you and your lot are here! We've heard all kinds of things about what you've been doing while you went away. You've made quite a name for yourself!"

"And you, Hirgon, how is your boy?"

"He joined the Guard after all, lady," the man replied, shaking his head ruefully. "You put too many ideas in his head."

"I blame you entirely," she grinned, and surveyed the small crowd before her. "Well, it's good to be back. I would greet you all, if I had enough hands and enough time, but I don't. The Steward hasn't been known to wait!"

There was general laughter, and Ingold gestured up the road. "After you, my lady."

They made their way quickly up the road. The news that the army was there to help rather than attack had preceded them, and people began emerging from their houses, doors and windows being flung open.

The cheers began in the second circle and persisted all the way to the first. Tíniel heard her name being called, and shouts of "Hail the Good Southron!" and "Hail the Queen from the East!"

She couldn't help a wry smile creeping onto her face. Denethor couldn't turn her away now without angering his people. She had their support – and not only that, but they liked her. This was going to be easier than she'd thought.

* * *

 **...but nothing is ever easy when it comes to that ratbag of a Steward, is it? Stay tuned for the next chapter, which currently has so much dialogue that it's called 'Mad Chats'. Hopefully I can come up with a better title than that by the time it goes out.**

 **I don't usually reply to reviews but:  
Dark-Enough-Conspiracy-Theory: AUSSIE AUSSIE AUSSIE, we gotta represent cuz. Your review made me grin like an idiot. Keep reading.  
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* * *

 **EXTRA AUTHOR'S NOTE: I am writing to you in the midst of a bushfire crisis. The fires I mentioned before have grown cataclysmically worse, and for a country that is already running out of water, they're devastating. People are dying while they try to defend their homes, and a day ago in our capitol city, the first person died due to the hazardous air quality.**

 **I thrust this information on you, my poor unwitting readers, because I don't know what to do except tell people. If I tell you, then at least one more person in the world knows what's happening. Otherwise I sit here, waiting to burn.**

 **Fire conditions are only worsening, along with high winds and temperatures in the 40s. If you don't get another update for a while, it's because the fires have hit and I've lost power and internet. I hope it won't come to that, but be aware.**

 **And on that bummer of a note, I leave you. Think of us!**

 **S**


	33. The Return of Tíniel

**33 – THE RETURN OF TÍNIEL**

* * *

 **AKA 'Mad Chats'. RIP my creativity.**

* * *

The crowds grew less jubilant and more wary the higher they climbed in the city. No one called out or cheered for her anymore, but Tíniel was nodded a welcome by a few people she recognised. Petakh and Tcharum were given only distrusting looks.

Memories came at her from all angles. It was an experience she'd never had before; the Maruvikh were a nomadic tribe, their stories and traditions attached to a people and a country, rather than a single place. But Minas Tirith was an unmoving city, and she was surprised to find the reminiscences that called from every familiar stone, ghosts of her former self.

She smiled when she passed by the house that she'd first been put in when she was brought to Gondor, the one she'd tried to escape. Her smile widened when they passed Beregond and Anita's home.

"Tíniel!" came a voice, high with excitement. "Tíniel, you came back!"

"Bergil!" she called back, and held out her arms. He ran into them and she hugged him, laughing. "Why, you come up to my chin now! Surely I was not gone long enough for you to grow this tall!"

He grinned bashfully and scuffed his feet on the cobblestones. "We saw you come in from Rohan with all your people," he said. "We thought you were enemies, but then we heard people saying your name, and we knew all was well!"

"Who is _we_?" she asked. "Is your mother nearby, or has she left the city with the wagons?"

"She most certainly has not," came another voice, and Tíniel looked up to see Anita, dressed as usual in her Healer's dress and her arms crossed over her chest. "Someone has to stay and run this place, and I didn't see anyone else remotely capable."

Tíniel laughed and embraced Anita. "Good to see you again, my friend," she said.

"By the stars, it is," Anita replied. "Things are getting dire here." She released Tíniel and took in the sight of the guards surrounding her. "You are going up to the Steward?"

"Yes," Tíniel said, and she nodded over at Petakh and Tcharum. "I brought some friends along with me, as I'm sure you've heard. ButI'll need to talk Denethor over to my side before he lets them in."

Anita nodded. "Good luck," she said sympathetically. "Remember, you are surrounded by friends here."

Tíniel clasped her hand. "I'll speak to you soon, I hope," she said. "But you should go to the Houses of Healing, and make sure all is prepared. There is battle coming for us ready or not, and I would rather be ready."

"So would I," Anita replied grimly. "There's a storm coming, sure as sure."

"Here," Tíniel said suddenly, holding out the palantír wrapped in the _vadi_. "Can you keep this for me?"

Anita took it, almost dropping it because of its weight. "What is it?"

"A secret, and valuable beyond measure," Tíniel said seriously. "For the love of the gods, Anita, do not unwrap it. It might undo us all."

Anita's eyes widened fractionally, but otherwise she didn't react. "I'll hide it in the Houses," she said.

"I am lucky to have you," Tíniel replied gratefully. "I have to go."

"Until later, then," Anita replied.

They continued upward, coming to the final gate. With a nod from Ingold they were allowed through, and they made their way toward the courtyard.

"Beware of the Steward," Ingold said quietly, his mouth close to her ear as they passed the dead White Tree.

"I know he is dangerous," she said. "I am as ready as I'll ever be to face him."

"Not only that," he said. "He is changed since last you were here. Boromir's death…" he hesitated, and his voice grew even softer. "He is going mad. You may try to reason with him, Tíniel, but I fear he may no longer listen to reason."

A sense of dread settled in Tíniel's stomach. This was shaping up to be one of the most important conversations of her life. "Nice of him to time his insanity so well," she muttered.

But some of her fears were allayed when she was met at the door by some old friends.

"Impeccable timing as always, Tíniel," Gandalf said, the familiar twinkle in his eye.

"Hello, Gandalf," she replied, smiling wryly. "Hello, Pippin. We weren't parted as long as I feared we would be."

"Indeed," the wizard replied. "I am glad to see you, my friend. I confess that I doubted you would come, given your people's history with Gondor."

"Your doubt was misplaced," she said. "There is a greater enemy now, and I am not given to politics like your Northern kings. But what are you both doing here?"

"I am sworn into the Lord Steward's service now," Pippin said more than a little dolefully. "I was called here to show you in, I think. Or perhaps to escort you out when he wants you to leave. He has a strange sense of humour, the Steward."

"If any at all," Tíniel replied darkly. "And you, Gandalf? Nothing more important calling for your time presently?"

"Nothing more important than gaining a powerful new ally for Minas Tirith," he said. "I am here in case Denethor needs to be reminded exactly how much he needs you and your tribe. And, of course, to be entertained. Now, are you ready?"

"Certainly not," she said cheerfully. "Let's go."

The throne room was just as she remembered it: gloomy and too big. The huge statues of kings past stared down from their pedestals, reminding Tíniel now of the Argonath she'd seen on the River.

The hall was shadowy, lit only by a few flickering torches. The throne itself hadn't changed at all – just as it hadn't changed for centuries, she suspected. It sat, grandiose and imposing at the top of the steps. And at the bottom, in his black chair, sat Denethor.

He looked more hunched than he had when she'd last seen him, his grey hair a little longer, the lines on his face a little deeper. He sat brooding, his head down, cradling something in his lap.

They stopped a short way in front of him, Tíniel flanked by Pippin and Gandalf and followed by Ingold and four guards. She touched her fist to her shoulder in a Khandi salute, and Tcharum and Petakh did the same.

"My lord," she said. Her voice broke the eerie silence of the great room, but it settled again just as quickly while she waited for him to speak.

"So," he said at last. His voice seemed older, and Tíniel could hear some subtle difference that she didn't understand. "You return to Minas Tirith without the companion with whom you left."

Tíniel hesitated. "I do," she said reluctantly. This was not where she'd wanted to start.

He raised his head a little, and she caught the glitter of hate in his eyes. "You left this city with my son by your side, and you return not with him, but with an enemy."

"Not an enemy, lord. An ally, and a powerful one. My tribe seeks shelter, and in return we offer our swords."

He rose to his feet quick as a viper, trembling with fury. "You are not welcome here!" he screeched, his voice echoing throughout the hall. "You seek shelter in my halls just as a snake seeks shelter in a baby's cradle! You would throw this city to the Enemy just as you did my son!" Spittle flew from his mouth. "Get out! Get out, you with Boromir's blood on your hands!"

Tíniel stiffened, but gave no other sign that she'd heard his speech. Denethor stood there, breathing heavily, waiting for her reply.

"Father," came a quiet, familiar voice to their left, and Faramir stepped out of the shadows. He looked absolutely exhausted; his clothes were torn and bloodied, and he was covered in dust. He didn't acknowledge Tíniel's presence.

"They have been our enemies for as long as memory, but we are not in a position to turn away such numbers."

Denethor fell heavily back into his chair, his hands clutching tightly the things in his lap. Tíniel looked more closely and saw with a pang that they were the two halves of Boromir's horn.

"You always had a soft spot for the barbarian girl, didn't you, Faramir?" he asked, his voice mildly vicious. Faramir blinked and almost swayed where he stood.

"My opinion on her is irrelevant. This is warcraft, father, simple logic. We need her help."

"Simple logic," Denethor repeated, his reedy voice making it sound sinister, "just as long as it defends your little _friend_."

Tíniel watched quietly. She knew Denethor was baiting her, trying to make her lash out, but she wouldn't fall into his trap. She _wouldn't_.

Faramir's eyes flicked toward her quickly, but not long enough for her to see his thoughts.

"I am not asking you to trust her, father, but the numbers," he tried, a note of pleading creeping into his voice.

Denethor turned to him, and now he spoke icily. "Your brother would not have been so weak."

This made Faramir recoil, and Tíniel's fury rose. Denethor had no right, no _right_ to say such things to the only son he had left.

"Do you wish I had gone North in his place?" Faramir asked quietly, his face white. "Is that what you want, father? That our places were exchanged, he here to turn help away and me dead?"

"Yes," Denethor spat, his anger rising again. The veins in his forehead stood out. "Yes, I wish you had gone North in his face. I wish –"

"Let us not forget who ordered Boromir to go," Tíniel snapped, her authoritative voice cutting across his like a hot knife through butter. "Let us not forget how Faramir begged to go, and how you turned him down. But the time for throwing blame will come. Now is the time to prepare for battle. The Enemy marches, and you sit here bickering!"

Denethor's face turned from angry to livid. "How _dare_ you address me that way?" he spat.

Tíniel's hands curled unto fists. "I am not your subject, Steward. I might be, as you so eloquently put it, a barbarian. But I am the queen of those barbarians, and your equal. I am offering you a way to almost double the forces you have here. And _you_ are behaving like a petty fool."

She felt Gandalf's hand on her arm, and she forced herself to take a calming breath. "I fight for the Free People of Middle-earth," she said, "and I know that you do too. If Gondor falls, so does the rest of Middle-earth. Let my people in. Let us fight the shadow together."

Denethor seemed to sink further back into his chair. His head tilted left toward Faramir.

"You," he whispered. "Since your brother is gone in your place, you must go in his. Go to Osgiliath."

Faramir's weary eyes widened. "Father… resistance in Osgiliath is useless. I tried to hold Cair Andros for you, I swear, but Osgiliath is a hopeless –"

"Go."

Faramir deflated, and he bowed his head dejectedly. "If my death is what you wish, father, it seems you will have it." He glanced over at Tíniel briefly, but looked away just as quickly. "If ever I return... think better of me." He turned and left.

Denethor's eyes drifted back down to the cloven horn in his lap. "Your people have already been granted access to the city," he said quietly to Tíniel. "I saw that you would come, and I gave orders long before you arrived here."

So she had been fighting him for no reason, Tíniel realised with frustration.  
"In your palantír?" she guessed. "It is a dangerous thing to look within, no matter how strong your mind. There is another who looks also, and his mind will bend most others."

Denethor looked up sharply, his teeth bared. "You have no right to that information."

She shrugged. "I may be a savage, but I am not stupid. There is a fleet of Corsairs coming up the Anduin to attack Gondor from the South, have you seen that in your little stone?"

"I have seen more than you know, girl," he growled. "You have what you want. Now get out."

Tíniel nodded thoughtfully. She had angered him again, but she didn't care. He'd angered her too. "Boromir loved me, you know," she said coldly. "As his own sister. I want you to know that."

Then she turned on her heel and strode out.

The others followed her, Pippin jogging to keep up.

"That was unnecessary," Gandalf said when they were back out in the open. "He is a man in grieving. To say what you did was only cruel."

"The knowledge that his son loved me was cruel?" Tíniel asked him. She did feel a twinge of regret at her parting words, but it was outweighed by the fury that Denethor had provoked. "Have you considered that he was cruel to me? Because he was, and he was cruel to Faramir too. He has sent his last son to die, but I must be nice because he is _in grieving_?"

Gandalf raised a bushy eyebrow, but made no further comment.

Tíniel marched past the White Tree and over to the wall. She looked down at the city. True to his word, the Steward had allowed the _bamyë_ into the city. From above, they looked like ants swarming into their nest. It seemed they were being housed in the second circle.

She turned back to Tcharum and Petakh. "They're in the city now. Begin preparations for battle." she ordered.

"What kind of preparations?" Tcharum asked. "We've never fought in a city before."

She hesitated. "It will be a siege at first, I imagine," she said. "Gather anyone who's half good with a bow, and have the mothers make extra arrows, as many as we have the materials to make. Assemble all the horses we have and find riders. As for the rest of the _variag_ … well, they'll come in useful later on."

"As you say," Petakh said. "And you?"

"I need to speak with someone," she said. "Then I will join you."

"Varamir,' Tcharum guessed. "That was him in there, wasn't it?"

"It was," she acknowledged. "And I need to talk to him, if he'll let me. But go now. Time is short."

" _Khuma,_ " Tcharum said, and he and Petakh left together. Tiniel turned back to the others.

"They are going back down to make preparations. I am going to find Faramir before he goes."

"I'll take you to Faramir, if you like," Ingold offered.

* * *

"I know where he lives, you know," Tíniel said to Ingold as they made their way toward the sleeping quarters. "It hasn't been that long since I was here."

"I know," Ingold said. "But truth be told, the Captain isn't overly fond of you these days. I don't want to know why, or what happened between you. But I thought I'd best come along, just to be sure everything stays civil."

Tíniel looked sideways at the gruff older man. "That is good of you, Ingold," she said sincerely. He shrugged it off, and she shook her head, nonplussed. "You know, I always thought you didn't like me."

Ingold smiled slightly. "I don't talk a lot, but that's no reason to think I don't like you."

"And did you?"

He hesitated sheepishly. "Well…"

"Ha. I knew it."

"I thought you were young and impetuous."

"I don't even know what that word means."

"Impetuous? It means rash, impulsive. You threw yourself headlong into everything. You always wanted to come along with the army wherever we were going, even though you weren't a man. You had a hot temper, you were impatient, and you said the first thing that popped into your head…"

"You paint a flattering picture."

"But you never failed to be there for Boromir and Faramir. You were always smiling. You were loyal, I always noticed that. And when I lost my arm…" he held up his stump glumly. "Some were horrified. But you weren't."

Tíniel bit her lip, remembering the frightening few days after the men had returned from Osgiliath, bleeding and unconscious.

"I tried my very best not to like you," Ingold said. "But you ended up making me like you anyway."

"You speak the truth," she said ruefully. "I was rash, and impatient and foolish. And I was probably worse than you remember, because I always shut up a bit around you."

"Why? Were you afraid of me?"

She considered it as they turned a corner. "Not so much. I think I wanted to impress you."

Ingold gave his lopsided smile again. "You just showed up outside the city with a following of more than seven thousand. Consider me impressed. But you have changed, you know."

"Really? How so?"

"You're not the girl that once lived here and chattered the ears off my soldiers until someone would fight with her. I think you've found yourself."

They stopped outside Faramir's door. "It only took a prophesy, three betrayals and several broken hearts to do it," she replied. Her smile was bittersweet. "Shall we?"

Ingold squeezed her shoulder. "After you."

She knocked, and the door was soon opened.

"What do you want?" Faramir asked tonelessly. Tíniel winced. She'd prepared herself for animosity, but it still hurt.

"To see you," she replied. "Can I come in?"

Faramir paused for a moment, but then stood back. She entered, followed by Ingold, and Faramir snorted humourlessly.

"You've brought a bodyguard, I see," he said.

Ingold made no comment, and Tíniel clenched her fists to prevent herself from doing something stupid. "I am so sorry, Faramir."

"So you said when you chose your tribe over your promise to me," he replied coldly. "If that's all you came to tell me, I suggest you leave. I have a stint in Osgiliath to pack for."

A little bit of her mask splintered, and she looked up, pleading. "Don't go, Faramir. Osgiliath is hopeless."

"I am going," he said shortly. "I, unlike some, don't go back on my loyalties."

Tíniel's fists clenched tighter, and she felt her fingernails drew blood. "You vouched for me before. Thank you."

"I did no such thing. I argued for Gondor's survival."

Her shoulders slumped. "Faramir, please," she said, emotion leaking into her voice. She reached out to him. "We are standing at the end of the world. Does it have to be like this?"

He caught her wrist, his grip vice-like. "This is not my fault," he hissed. "I begged you to stay. I _begged_ you. Betrayals have consequences, _Tchakhura_ , you of all people should know that. So forgive me my anger."

She stared into his eyes, her own brimming with tears. His grip on her wrist hurt, but it was a pain that she felt she deserved. He stared back, breathing hard, the emotion written on his face alternating between anger and sadness.

For a moment they stayed that way, and then Ingold stepped forward. "Let her go, Faramir," he said. Faramir seemed to realise what he was doing.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, releasing her and stepping back. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything."

"Me too," she said quietly, one of the tears spilling over.

He nodded slowly. "Well. You should go then."

She went to argue, but Ingold touched her on the arm gently. She sighed. "Goodbye, Faramir."

"Goodbye," he said.

She nodded. "Your father loves you, you know," she said. "He'll remember it before the end, just as mine did." Faramir's eyes met hers again, but she turned and left the room. She and Ingold walked together in silence, but when they were almost at the turn, Faramir called.

"Tíniel!" he said. She turned to see him at the door to his quarters. "Next time," he called. "Next time I see you, I'll forgive you."

She nodded, not saying what they were both thinking. Osgiliath was a death trap, and the Enemy was coming for Minas Tirith. They would never see each other again.

"Next time," she whispered. He shut the door, and she and Ingold went on.

"There," she said. "Another broken heart to add to the list."

"It would be hard for that to have gone worse," he said pragmatically. She shot him a look.

They made their way down through the city, Tíniel's heart heavy. Ingold didn't try to speak to her, and she was grateful for it. He'd seen and heard many strange things that afternoon, and not once had he questioned her.

But when they were almost at the gate to the second circle, Ingold pulled her aside into a building. It was someone's house, and it seemed to have been hurriedly abandoned in the evacuation.

"What's wrong?" Tíniel asked, looking about in confusion.

"Nothing," Ingold said. "Nothing. It's just…" he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "I don't like to ask it of you. But you promised me something before, at the gates of the city, and…"

"You want me to tell you about Boromir," she said slowly, her heart sinking further still. "Of course."

"I am sorry."

"No," she said, sitting heavily on a wooden chair next to the cold fireplace. "No. You of all people deserve to know." Ingold stayed standing, but he moved closer to listen, his face expressionless.

Taking a deep breath, she began. "He told you about the dream," she said, and he nodded. "Isildur's Bane. It was a ring, a golden ring, that belongs to the Enemy. When we reached Imladris – Rivendell, they call it – Boromir joined the company that was to take it to Mordor, where it could be destroyed."

It was a farfetched story, even to her ears, but Ingold simply watched her, waiting for her to continue.

"I joined them later. The Ring… it did to us what it did to Isildur three thousand years ago. It corrupted our minds, twisted us. Our wills were too weak to withstand it…" Her voice grew thick and she swallowed. "Boromir tried to take it from the Halfling who carried it, and soon afterwards I tried to do the same. My mind was so bent upon taking the Ring that I barely heard the horn."

"His horn," Ingold breathed, his voice barely audible. The pain was visible on his face now, but she continued.

"His horn, yes. It called me, and I ignored it for the Ring. And that knowledge haunts me –" she drew in a deep, shuddering breath. "It haunts me still. But at last I went to him. It was too late. He was pierced by four orc arrows."

"Valar be merciful," Ingold whispered, and a tear slid down his cheek.

"I spoke to him at the end," she went on, "before he died. He told me that Minas Tirith was mine to protect. He told me to tell Faramir that he died with honour, for he did. He died protecting our companions."

"And me?" Ingold choked out. "Did he have words for me, who loved him?"

"He told me to tell you nothing," she whispered, her own tears returning. "He said you already knew."

At this, Ingold fell to his knees and sobbed. He reached out and wrapped his arms around her waist, laying his head on her lap in his blinding grief. Tíniel felt her face twist with anguish, and she laid her hands on his head to comfort him.

"I loved him in every way that a man can love," Ingold wept, his tears dampening her tunic. "I loved him with everything I was, and now he is gone."

"I know," she whispered. She could think of nothing else to say.

"And I must hide my tears, grieve in secret," he went on. His whole body was shaking, and his arms encircled her tightly. "Just as I loved him in secret. No one can know that I cry." He looked up, his face tear-stained and ugly. "That is the worst of it."

" _I_ know that you cry," she said to him, taking his face in her hands and looking at him earnestly. " _I_ know how you loved him. I know, and Faramir knows. You can cry with me."

He held her gaze for another moment, then he got to his feet and wiped his face. "Sorry."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, standing too. "I saw how he loved you, you know. It was so clear. Every time he looked at you, he would just… soften. And sometimes I would ask where he was going, and he would say nothing. But he would smile, and I knew he was going to see you. Love like that goes beyond death."

"Tell me that again someday," he said. "The grief is too near now."

She nodded. "I should go. Time is short."

"Yes. I… thank you, Tíniel. I think I will stay here a while."

She looked at his bloodshot eyes and a smile tugged at her lips. "Good idea."

"If you need anything, anything at all, come to me." He hugged her quickly, then let her go. "I hope I'll see you again before the end."

"You will," she said. "It isn't upon us yet."

She stepped out the door into the unnatural darkness of the late afternoon. The street was a hive of activity, soldiers milling about, shouting and putting things into order. Some of them greeted her, but she couldn't respond.

She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed deeply. There was so much to do, so much to think about, so much to prepare… she had to be there for Faramir, for Anita, for Ingold, and most of all for Tcharum and her people. She felt the tug of grief, the memories of Boromir and Borund.

But just for a fraction of a second, she allowed herself to think about _him_ , to wonder if he had made it through the Paths of the Dead, and if he was still alive…

"Tíniel!" came a voice, jolting her out of her mind. "I heard you came back! I was just showing your lot into quarters in the circle below, and by the _stars_ they are an imposing bunch! Glad they're on our side for once!"

"Iorlas," she sighed, opening her eyes and recognising the Guard who had spoken. "Good to see you. I'm on my way there now, actually."

"See you on the battlefield then, I suppose," he said, trying to sound jaunty but his face falling just a little.

Tíniel grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "Chin up, soldier. Nothing like a good orc fight to raise the spirits!"

His face brightened at her words, and she left him and went down to the second circle.

* * *

Tcharum was waiting for her.

"Right," he said, immediately grabbing her by the arm and steering her into a house. "Time for you to sleep."

She snorted as soon as she caught sight of the bed before her. "I think not, brother. Don't know if you've noticed, but certain death is knocking on our door. I have better things to do."

"No, you don't," he said firmly, shoving her forward and then blocking the doorway with his arms crossed. "Certain death is coming indeed, but I would rather my Khondyë be sane and know what she's doing than have her senseless from exhaustion. Petakh has already ordered the rest of the _bamyë_ to do the same."

Tíniel paused. He had a good point, but there was _so much_ for her to do…

"Last I checked, I was the Maruvikh Khondyë, not you," she argued weakly.

Tcharum sighed. "Tchakhura, I've been watching you. You haven't slept properly since the night before Borund died. It is unnatural."

She looked down. "It is true. I cannot lie," she mumbled. "But nightmares will come."

"The nightmares will be worth it, for every minute of sleep it gives you," Tcharum said, his tone brooking no argument. "Sleep, sister. I will look over things while you do."

She gave in gracelessly. "Fine," she snapped. "Wake me after three hours."

"Five," he said. She glared at him, and he relented. "Four. I'll wake you after four. Now _sleep_ , for the love of all that is good."

The bed felt inhumanely good. She sank into it with a groan, not bothering to take her boots off her feet or her _vadi_ off her head. She fell asleep, and for a few blissful moments, there was peace.

 _Then she was dreaming._

 _She was in the Khondyë's patchi, sitting cross-legged on the floor. A single lantern lit the tent. Opposite her sat her father._

"Khuma _, daughter," he said._

"Khuma _, Vadrë," she returned. "I am glad to see you."_

" _I wish I could say the same," he said coldly. Once, Tíniel would have felt cut by such a remark, but now she just felt sad._

" _Even in death you cannot be kind to me?" she asked. "What did I do?"_

" _Who can say?" he replied, and she looked back up sharply. Her father's face had changed into Akhund's. "Grief is a strange, twisting thing."_

" _It didn't twist me," she returned. "And I've seen enough of it."_

" _Really?" he asked. Tíniel's heart ached; Akhund had changed into Boromir. "Have you really not changed at all after losing so much?"_

 _She looked down at her hands. Their palms were scarred from the times she'd cut them, singing for her dead. "Ingold said that I have changed."_

" _He is right," Boromir said._

" _Is this real?" she asked. "Is this really you? Or is it the gods, using you to speak to me?"_

" _Who can say?" he answered. His face melted and shifted, and suddenly she was speaking to Borund. "Can't it be the same thing?"_

" _I don't think so," she said. "Or maybe it can. I don't know. I don't understand death, or the gods."_

" _Nor does anyone who lives," he answered, smiling widely._

" _What was the point of the prophecy if we're all going to die in a few days?" she asked._

" _You speak as it the prophecy has been fulfilled, my friend," he said._

" _Hasn't it?" she asked. "I betrayed those who held me dear. I am torn between two worlds. Isn't it enough?"_

" _The greatest will be, despite hatred and scorn, the lowest among you," he said, quoting the prophecy. He suddenly morphed into Akhund again. "The Khondyë's firstborn."_

" _So, somehow I must become the greatest among my people," she said. "Am I not already Khondyë?"_

" _There have been Khondyës before," he said, smiling a smile that looked exactly like Gandalf's. "You will be what has never been before. The greatest."_

 _She sighed, and buried her face in her hands. Wizards were useless. "Why am I dreaming now?"_

" _Why do you ask?"_

" _There is always been a purpose to my dreams. They give me clues, try to tell me something. What is this dream trying to tell me?"_

" _Perhaps it is telling you to hope," Akhund said gently._

" _Ha. Hope is a rare commodity these days. I'm afraid my hope went walking down the Paths of the Dead."_

" _What?"_

 _Tíniel looked up sharply, catching her breath. The man before her had shifted from Borund into…_

" _Aragorn?" she whispered._

" _Tíniel!" he exclaimed._

 _Even though she knew it was a doom dream, her heart pounded with fear. "Does this mean... you're dead?"_

" _What? No. Halbarad made me go to sleep, that's all. Is it really you?"_

" _I think so," she said. She couldn't help but smile. "So, you made it through."_

 _He returned the smile lopsidedly. "I did. And you'll never guess who I found on the other side."_

 _He became blurry, and her smile faded. "I'm waking up," she said._

" _I'll see you soon," he said. "Promise. I love you."_

"Tchakhura," Tcharum said, shaking her gently. She sat bolt upright, breathing hard. "Are you alright?"

"I think so," she said. "How long did I sleep?"

"Seven hours," he replied. "Sorry. But you needed it. How do you feel?"

She stood up and grinned at him. "Good," she said. "I feel good."

* * *

 **Ha, you didn't think we were done with the doom dreams yet, did you?**

 **To my reviewers:  
Lady Istalri – binge readers are my favourite, bless YOU!  
LH Wordsmith – the mystery of Remuil will soon be solved...  
patrigt410 – gracias por tu mensaje – ¡tratarle de subir los capítulos regularmente!  
And pineapple pancake – Dessa is in fact an indulgence of mine. She is the star of a different story which will one day be published here. I couldn't resist putting her in.**

 **To everyone who reviewed, and everyone who wished me and my family well in the fires – thank you. They continue, but some rain and cooler temperatures over the weekend have been heaven sent. The extra-long chapter is for you.**

 **Holidays are over in a few days for me, but fear not: the next chapter won't be too long in coming!**

 **S**


	34. The Siege of Minas Tirith

**34 – THE SIEGE OF MINAS TIRITH**

* * *

The next few days were fraught with tension. Tíniel dreamed no more, and with every day that passed, stories of the pirate fleet coming for the City increased.

"Don't think about what you cannot change," Tcharum had urged when she confided her fears that the Grey Company's mission had failed. "We can only focus on the battle that is coming to us."

He was right, of course, but it didn't stop her worrying.

Faramir was still gone, and all news coming from Osgiliath was bad. Word had it that Faramir had lost a quarter of his men there, though he still lived – for now. And Ingold had left with a party of men for Rohan on Denethor's orders.

"He all but told us to command them to come to our aid," Ingold confided in her quietly, the night before he left. "He bade us _command_ them when we should be crawling before them, begging them."

"They intended to come when I left," she reasoned. "They still might."

"Why would they?" he said despairingly. "They have enemies marching from the North into their own lands, and Minas Tirith is about to become a death trap. No, there is no help coming from Rohan."

Still, he left the next morning under the darkness of the invisible dawn.

Tíniel threw herself into the organisation of her tribe. The mothers gathered supplies for the potential siege and built extra bows and arrows. The _variag_ were organised into units that would work better in the layout of Minas Tirith and the Pelennor fields.

The plan was for the Maruvikh archers – about four hundred of them – to fire from the walls while the siege lasted. If – and when – the walls were breached, four units would stay in the city to try to minimise the enemy's penetration. Another two units would exit through the main gates on horseback and take the battle to the fields, and the last five units would follow on foot.

The mothers and children would be taken up higher into the City, but they were armed to the teeth in case every other layer of defence was overcome.

She was overseeing the distribution of weapons when Anita came to visit. There was a long line of Khandi men and women going out the door, and they all gave her strange looks when she squeezed past them into the building. She was wearing her grey Healer's dress, and that combined with her pale skin made her stick out like a sore thumb.

"Hello," she said, eying the line.

"Hello Anita!" Tíniel returned, handing a sharpened _mithiri_ to the fresh-faced soldier before her.

" _Khuma Khondye,_ " he said to her, and exited out the door. The next _variag_ stepped up.

"I just wanted to see how you were faring," Anita said.

"Well enough," Tíniel replied, beckoning to Petakh to take over from her. She stepped to the side and brushed off her hands. "How go things in the higher circles?"

"It's chaos," Anita sighed. "The Houses are in pandemonium. We're not going to have enough room, let alone enough beds. We have barely enough Healers as it is, since most of the women left with the wagons. I don't know what to do. We don't even have a clear idea of what _scale_ we're looking at."

"There might be thousands, Anita," Tíniel said grimly.

Anita shook her head bleakly. "We have not the room. We have nowhere near the space we're going to need."

"The gardens," Tíniel exclaimed, the idea coming to her suddenly. "Put stretchers in the gardens for the less wounded. They're attached to the Houses, aren't they?"

"Yes!" Anita agreed, excited. "I'll have them clear the space as soon as I return. Ioreth will have kittens, but the others will see the need."

"Ioreth didn't leave with the others?" Tíniel asked sympathetically.

"No," Anita sighed. "Ironic, I know, since she is the biggest liability in Gondor."

Tíniel tried to hide her snort. "That's cruel."

"But true, I'm afraid. She claims that she stays to watch over her niece, who is a better Healer than her by any measure. But everyone knows she stayed because she was afraid of missing out on the gossip."

"At least Ioreth hasn't changed," Tíniel grinned. "Listen, I'll pull every healer I have from my ranks and send them up to help you. That should suffice to scandalise Ioreth."

"I should think so!" Anita replied. "But your people don't speak the common tongue. Will it not pose difficulties?"

"I'll send Petakh with them," Tíniel said, nodding at the woman dispensing weapons a few yards away. "She understands enough Westron, and she is pregnant so she cannot fight."

"Very well," Anita said. "It will be a great help. Send them up as soon as the siege begins."

"It will be done,' Tíniel agreed, and for a few seconds they watched the line progress in silence. Every now and then, one of the soldiers would glance up at the roof. Some shifted nervously.

"Are they alright?" Anita asked, frowning.

Tíniel smiled slightly. "They don't like being inside," she said. "They are used to being under light wooden beams and animal skins, nothing more."

"Long past are the days when you did the same," Anita replied, shaking her head wryly. Then her frown returned. "Do all the tribes dress the same in Khand?"

Tíniel paused. "No, not exactly. We would be able to tell if someone was Maruvikh or not. Why do you ask?"

Anita chewed on her bottom lip. "I heard that the Enemy has recruited more Khandi forces into his army."

"I heard the same," Tíniel said, still unsure of what Anita was getting at.

"Well, how will our army know the difference between your people and Khandi enemies on the battlefield?"

Tíniel froze, her mind racing. It was an excellent point, and one she hadn't considered before. " _Vorukhi_ ," she swore under her breath. "What can we do?"

Anita's brow creased, and Tíniel knew her friend was deep in thought. "Do other tribes cover their faces as yours sometimes does?"

"Yes, and they certainly will during battle."

"What colour will the cloth be?"

"Red, mostly," Tíniel said. "The Kheviag tribe will wear dull orange, if they come. But how does this help us?"

"Could your soldiers fight without them?"

Tíniel hesitated, but shook her head. "It would be like a knight of Gondor fighting naked," she said. "It _could_ be done, but that doesn't mean it is in any way comfortable – for him, or for his enemy."

"Then we shall have some made that are of a different colour," Anita said. "Tarlas the old cloth merchant has left with the wagons. Do you fancy breaking into his shop?"

It was a lot easier to do than Tíniel had anticipated. There was an open window around the back.

"You don't think he'll have taken all his wares with him?" she asked as they climbed through into the dark, dusty room.

"Not at all," Anita replied. "Have you ever seen one of his rolls of cloth? They're enormous, and too to be piled up in their tens on a wagon."

They found a trapdoor that led down underneath the building, and that's where they found them.

"By the stars," Tíniel whispered in awe. "They're massive."

There were tens of rolls of cloth leaning against the wall, each of them nearly double her height.

"This one will do nicely, I think," Anita said, fingering a bolt dyed dark blue. "Blue for Minas Tirith."

"Now to get it out," Tíniel said grimly.

* * *

Hirgon of the Guard found them a little while later, trying to lug the enormous roll of fabric back down to the Khandi headquarters.

"Ah, my lady?" he said awkwardly.

"Hirgon!" Tíniel returned breathlessly, accidentally dropping her end of the roll. "Is everything alright?"

"No," he said, his tone suddenly urgent as though he'd remembered his errand. "The command at Osgiliath, they're… retreating. We're going to send out a sortie, and we'd be grateful if you'd join us."

Tíniel's heart dropped and she snapped to attention. "My riders can be ready in minutes," she said. "Meet me there!"

Hirgon bowed quickly and turned to leave, but then Tíniel frowned. Something didn't feel right.

"Hirgon!" He whirled back to face her at the sound of his name. "Did the Steward order this?"

Hirgon hesitated, glancing up to the Tower of Ecthelion in the distance. Strange lights had been flashing in its window all day, and she feared the palantír had something to do with it.

"No, Tíniel," he admitted. "It was the lord Imrahil who told me to go find you. I am sorry, but there is little time to delay." He turned and disappeared into the gloom.

Tíniel paused for a moment, looking after him. Riding out to rescue the Osgiliath forces could be a dangerous political move if Denethor hadn't ordered it. But then she shook her head. Imrahil was with her. And more importantly, Faramir was out there. And he needed her help.

"Sorry Anita!" she cried, and sprinted after Hirgon.

Anita looked back balefully at the bolt of cloth that was probably twice her own weight.

"I don't know why I put up with it," she said to it. It didn't reply, and mournfully, she began to drag it by herself.

Tíniel pelted down the streets, shouting the passwords at the Guards so that they could open the gates before she was even there. She slammed into the building where they'd been quartered. Petakh was handing out the last of the weapons.

"Riders!" she yelled in Khandi, drawing the attention of everyone present. "With me, to battle! Archers, to the walls!"

Instantly, there was a flurry of activity. Petakh was at her side in a moment.

"Let me ride, Khondyë," she said urgently.

Tíniel shook her head. "Law is law, Petakh," she replied. "Command the archers at the walls. Do not let them shoot unless the shots are clear."

Petakh looked as though she wanted to argue, but she only saluted.

"Where is Tcharum?" Tíniel yelled.

"Here!" her brother shouted back, wading through the swarming crowd of people. "What happened?" he asked when he reached her. "Is it time?"

"Not yet," she replied. "But we're sending out a rescue party. Come with me?"

"Of course," he said, winding his _vadi_ around his head and over his mouth and nose. "Time for an orc hunt!"

Tcharum oversaw the muster of Khandi forces while Tíniel went up to the Gate, where Imrahil was waiting. He was a tall, broad man, whose dark hair was greying at the temples. He exuded an aura of self-possessed authority.

He bowed, his hand on his chest. "Well met, Tchakhura of Khand," he said.

She saluted in the Khandi fashion. "Same to you, Prince."

"I fear there is little time for pleasantries now," he said. "They are retreating from Osgiliath, but they are being pursued by orcs and Southrons."

"I have two hundred riders ready to go as soon as you like," she said, her tone abrupt and business-like. "Will you ride with us?"

There was a shadow of approval in Imrahil's stern eyes. "Of course," he replied. But his slight smile faded when he glanced out over the plain. Tíniel followed his gaze and clenched her jaw.

 _Retreat_ was too strong a word for the sight before her. It was a rout, a disorganised shambles. Horses galloped in terrified disorder, and the forces spread in a jagged line of retreat across the plain. The scene was made only more terrible by the army that followed swift on their heels.

Tíniel wrapped Borund's _vadi_ around her face, and Imrahil donned his helm.

"Let us ride," he said grimly.

* * *

When the Gates finally began to swing open, Tíniel's horse was champing at the bit.

"Your people take the orcs," she said to Imrahil, who was mounted beside her. "Mine will take the Southrons."

He nodded shortly in agreement, his grip tightening on the reigns as the gates swung wide open.

"See you on the other side," he said, flipping down his visor.

"Gods be good," she replied, and drew her curved sword with a loud cry. There was a deafening shriek of metal behind her as her riders did the same.

"Forward!" she shouted, and kicked her horse into a gallop.

It had been a long time since she'd fought on horseback. She raced across the plain, Tcharum beside her and her _variag_ behind her, her face covered by the red cloth of her _vadi._ Her eyes narrowed and she swerved to the left to avoid the first of the retreating troops.

It was then a matter of seconds before she was in the midst of the enemy. Most of them were Haradrim of Near Harad, and they fought just as she had expected. Their spears were effective weapons in the charge, but they were unwieldy in close quarters. That was when her _mithiri_ came in handy.

With a fierce cry, she batted aside a spear pointed right at her chest and slashed at the mounted warrior. Her blade opened his neck, but she didn't wait to see him fall. Again and again her sword rose and fell, most times finding its mark.

It wasn't until a dart whistled by her ear that she realised she'd gone too deep.

"Fall back!" she shouted, trying to be heard over the deafening sounds of people fighting and dying. "Maruvikh, with me! Fall back!"

She wheeled her horse and another dart whizzed by her shoulder. She galloped back, taking out a wayward orc on the way.

"Khondyë, why do we retreat?" someone bellowed from her left. It was Vagura, his face streaked with blood and the battle-craze in his eyes.

"Makwa darts!" she shouted back. "They have makwa darts! Fall back, _now_!"

That was enough to put fear into the Khandi and galvanise them enough to urge their horses faster. Tíniel stood in her stirrups, turning back to make sure none had been left behind…

And she saw him. He was on foot, fighting desperately with a Haradi Captain. His movements were sluggish, exhausted. He was bleeding. He was barely holding his own. But at the last moment, he cut the Captain down.

"Faramir!" Tíniel cried, and he looked up to find the source of the call. Their eyes met, and for a moment his face filled with hope.

And then it hit him.

Tíniel cursed and galloped back toward him. She was almost there when an orc planted an axe in her horse's neck. She fell hard on her shoulder, but she tossed her sword over to her left hand and plunged it into the orc's stomach, slashing to free it and spraying herself with hot blood.

"Tíniel!" came a gasp, and she turned to see Faramir, white faced with a makwa dart protruding from his stomach.

"You're alright," she said, pulling his arm over her shoulder to prop him up. With her free hand she yanked the dart out and tossed it aside, ignoring his cry of agony.

"We need to get back," she said grimly, not allowing herself to think about the reality of Faramir's plight. "We need to go."

At a painful half-jog, she dragged Faramir across the battlefield. She couldn't move her right arm, and it became abundantly clear that they weren't going to make it. She collapsed onto her knees, the pain starting to set in.

"Tíniel," Faramir gulped. "I cannot… Tíniel, I cannot see. Tíniel!"

She pressed her forehead to his cheek, suddenly exhausted. This wasn't supposed to be how it ended.

"I am here, Faramir," she said. She could see an Easterling approaching and she held her sword ready, saying nothing to Faramir. "I am with you."

"It hurts," he sobbed, hunching over. His voice suddenly sounded very young, and she tried to pull him back upright. The Easterling grinned and whirled his sword, taking his time. He knew she wasn't going anywhere.

But his march was cut short when his head suddenly tumbled off his shoulders.

"It is over!" Imrahil cried from his horse. "The army is safe inside the walls and there is nothing more we can do here! We must go!"

With a monumental effort, Tíniel pulled Faramir to his feet. "Take him!" she shouted, ducking under a rogue swing from a Haradrim. "Take him to Gandalf!"

Imrahil's eyes widened, and he lifted Faramir to sit before him on his enormous horse. "What about you?"

Tíniel gritted her teeth against the pain in her shoulder. "No time," she growled. "Go!"

Imrahil's jaw set and he nodded at her. Then he disappeared into the growing crowd of enemies, back toward the Gate.

Tíniel stood, exhausted, filthy and in terrible pain. Through the haze in her mind, something didn't make sense. Why wasn't she being attacked? Easterlings, Southrons and orcs swarmed about her, howling for the blood of Northmen. Why hadn't they killed her?

Her train of thought was interrupted when someone brushed by her, and her shoulder spiked in pain.

"Death to the _khaviga!_ " came a cry nearby. With an effort, she raised her head to see a Khandi man astride his horse, shouting up to the walls. "Death to Tchakhura Khondye, _khaviga_ to Khand, and all who follow her!"

She looked back down. Her face was covered by a red _vadi_ , and she was dressed as any Khandi soldier would be. They thought she was one of them.

"Not very kind words, if you ask me," came an oddly familiar voice from beside her. Her head jerked up again, and the haze suddenly cleared.

"Akhund?" she breathed.

"Hush, don't give me away," he replied conspiratorially.

Shock overwhelmed her. "By all that is good, what are you doing here?"

"Lots of things," he said, and began listing off his fingers. "First and foremost, sightseeing. It has been many years since I visited Minas Tirith, and I must say, time has not been kind. Secondly," his eyes twinkled, "to see you. I thought I'd left you alone long enough."

She gaped. "But… how did you know where to find me?"

"Everyone in Middle-earth knows where to find you, my dear. You're the talk of the West _and_ the East. Didn't you hear our friend over there shouting insults in the wrong direction?"

She shifted, and a spike of pain from her shoulder made her groan. "Get to your point, Akhund."

"Well, there is a third and relatively important reason for my presence," he admitted. "I have come to fight in the War."

"On the wrong side."

"Let us not argue about _sides_ , my dear. We don't have the time. I am here on the side of the Valar, and fortunately for you at the moment, that means _your_ side."

Someone jostled her from behind, and fiery pain overcame her for a moment. "And where does that get me?" she grunted.

"Back into the city," Akhund said, smiling breezily. "This way, if you please."

He led her on a weaving path through the gathering mass, until they somehow reached the outer wall. Tíniel could barely think straight.

"The Gate is that way," she said, nodding to the left. "And it's already shut. It's too late."

"We're not going to the Gate," Akhund said. "We're going here."

They stopped at a nondescript place at the base of the wall. It towered above them.

"What is here?" Tíniel asked, craning her neck and then moaning when it cause agonising pain.

"I do not know," Akhund said. "Isn't that funny! I don't know why you need to be here; I just _know._ "

At that moment, a rope dropped from above, almost hitting her in the head. Akhund smiled.

"Well, there you go. Wonders never cease. Enjoy the light show, my dear."

"I – what?" Tíniel stared after him, but he had already disappeared into the crowd.

She looked back at the rope before her. The wall was too high for her to see who had dropped it, but it was useless anyway. She wouldn't be able to climb with one arm, and even if she could, she'd be shot down by orcs.

Just then, not a hundred yards away, there was a small explosion. Tíniel looked back and was almost blinded by a bright light that shone red and orange as the desert sun.

 _Enjoy the light show,_ Akhund had told her, and suddenly she knew what to do. She turned back to the wall and wrapped the rope twice around her left hand. She gave a hard tug, and with a jolt, she began to be pulled up.

She would have been doomed if every creature's gaze within a half-mile radius hadn't been drawn to the dazzling lights. She ascended quickly and silently, and when she tumbled over the parapet at the top, she came face to face with another wizard.

"Gandalf?" she said, breathing hard. The pain from her shoulder was so bad that her legs had begun trembling.

"Ah, it's you," he said, his face clearing. "What a pleasant surprise!"

She blinked. "But you… you dropped the rope for me."

"Well, not for _you_ , per say," he said. "I do not know why I dropped the rope. I just knew that it was what needed to happen."

She stared at him, incredulous. "Wizards," she said, shaking her head.

Then he touched her shoulder and she screamed, dropping to her knees.

"Tchakhura!" came Petakh's voice.

"Get her to the Healers," Gandalf said. "Do you understand me?"

"Healers," Petakh repeated in the Common Tongue. "I understand."

"It's dislocated, that's all," Anita said when Petakh and Tíniel at last made it up to the Houses. "Stop being such a baby about it."

"I hate you," Tíniel bit out, and Anita laughed.

"You're going to hate me a lot more in a moment." She turned to Petakh. "Will you help me, friend?"

Tíniel screamed for the second time that night.

* * *

Imrahil stood before the Steward of Gondor, Faramir unconscious in his arms. Denethor's face was a mixture of fear and fury, but Imrahil felt little pity for the man.

"What happened?" he hissed.

"Your son is returned, lord," Imrahil replied, "after great deeds."

"After failure, you mean," Denethor all but spat. "Get him out of my sight."

Imrahil fought to keep his temper under control. "He is _dying,_ Denethor. Have you a heart?"

Denethor stood without a word and strode out of the hall. Imrahil closed his eyes, weariness suddenly overcoming him. The end of the world was upon them, and men like Denethor were the ones leading them into it, while men like Faramir paid the price.

"My lord," came an accented voice, and he turned to see the Khandi chief, Tchakhura striding towards him from the main doors. Her arm was in a sling and she was filthy, but otherwise she seemed unharmed.

"My lady," he said. "I feared you were dead."

"Many have done so, and found themselves disappointed," she replied.

His eyes widened. "I didn't mean –"

"A joke, lord," she interrupted gently, and he stared at her for a moment. He'd never met a stranger woman.

But the subject was quickly dropped when her eyes fell on Faramir limp in his arms. Fear radiated from her, and Imrahil sighed.

"I fear he is not long for this world," he said quietly.

She flinched. "There is still a chance," she said, stepping forward and cupping his pale cheek with her good hand. "He was shot by a makwa dart. We can make the antidote."

Imrahil frowned. "Walk with me and explain," he said. She fell into step beside him.

"Then walk quickly," she said. "The Haradrim make a poison from the makwa root, and use it to coat their darts. It acts fast, as you can see," she gestured to Faramir, "and kills effectively. But there is an antidote."

"Then we must get it to him," Imrahil said. But he caught the pained look on Tchakhura's face.

"It is made of the makwa root too," she said. "Only the Haradrim have it."

The beginnings of hope that had sparked in his chest died as soon as they had begun. "So it is hopeless," he said.

She put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him in his tracks, looking him sternly in the eye. "It is never hopeless, Prince," she said. "Never."

He found himself believing her, this young foreigner whom he would have treated as his enemy in any other situation. "What then?"

"I have sent a spy," she said, leading him onward again. "Someone I trust. He is exiting the City secretly to join the siege outside. He will pose as enemy Khandi and try to get the makwa."

"He won't get caught?" he asked, as they finally turned into the Houses of Healing.

Again, the pain flashed across her face. "I… I pray not," she said, the confident mask slipping back into place. "But the risk is worth it. Some of my warriors were hit as well as Faramir." She glanced down at him again, worry lining her young face. "Gods, I hope he hurries…"

"Tíniel?" came a call. A Healer dressed in grey hurried past the rows of beds towards them.

"Anita!" Tchakhura replied, and stepped aside so that the Healer could see what Imrahil carried. When she did, she paled visibly.

"Oh," she said. "Oh no."

* * *

Mugura swallowed hard, standing on his toes to see over the milling crowd. Men, orcs and mixtures between were jostling each other, growling and shrieking and shouting. He had never felt more afraid in his life.

He kept his _vadi_ up over his face and prayed that no one would recognise him as an enemy. He had never been more terrified in his life.

"Hey, you!" came a voice behind him, speaking in an Eastern Harad dialect that he thankfully understood. "Are you lost?"

He shook his head and tried to move on, but the man caught his arm and pulled him back.

"Your people are back that way, you know that?"

He nodded, and the man squinted at him in the dark.

"Is it bad that I can't tell if you're a boy or a girl?"

Mugura felt a flash of indignation. "I'm a boy," he said, but terror made his voice come out high and squeaky. He cleared his throat, embarrassed, but he saw the man's white teeth flash in his dark face. A grin, he realised.

"Very well then, boy. What business do you have here?"

Mugura opened his mouth to reply, but he could think of nothing to say. Desperate, his eyes darted around, searching for inspiration. Then they landed on a pouch at the man's waist.

"You are a healer," he blurted out.

The man blinked. "Not a good one. But necessity will make a healer out of a killer."

"I… my brother," Mugura said. "My brother got hit by a makwa dart. In the battle."

The man looked highly sceptical. "How is that even possible? Our aim is always true."

"There was a Khandi tribe fighting with the Northmen," Mugura said. Guilt at his lie stabbed him like a hot knife. "He was mistaken for one of them."

The Haradi man folded his arms over his chest. "I don't believe you."

Mugura swallowed again. "Khandi don't lie," he said, his voice surprisingly steady for someone who wanted to burst into tears.

At this, the man relented. "That's true enough," he said, and reached into his pouch. "It might be too late for your brother, boy. Almost two hours have passed since the battle." He pulled out a small, twisted makwa root and handed it to Mugura. "But where there is life, there is hope. This darkness won't last forever."

Mugura stared at him, wide eyed. Wasn't the man fighting for Mekakhond? Didn't he _want_ the darkness to last forever? But he simply clapped Mugura on the shoulder and turned away.

* * *

Anita and two other male Healers that Tíniel didn't know the names of were bent over Faramir's still body. From what she could catch of their hushed murmurs, they had made no progress.

Imrahil sat beside her, his fists clenched on his knees.

"I will watch him, lord," she said quietly. "I know you have much to attend to."

He glanced down at her. "I know you have much to attend to as well," he said.

She clasped and unclasped her hands. "I cannot leave him. He was – is – as a brother to me."

"As was Boromir?"

She glanced up at him, surprised, but he shrugged. "I've heard stories about you, my lady."

"He is your sister-son, yes?" she asked, and he nodded, looking back to Faramir.

"So I will not leave him either." His jaw clenched, and she thought he looked tired. "As you say, there is work to be done. There is a siege gathering as we speak. Darkness and the end of days waits at our doorstep. But I would be there if it is now that Faramir breathes his last."

His voice caught, but Tíniel didn't look at him. She merely watched the faint rising and falling of Faramir's chest as he died.

She felt numb to the hurt. He was going to _die_ , and become merely another name on her list. _Mahaya. Boromir. Vadrë. Borund. Aragorn._ She had lost and lost and lost.

But there was hope. There always had to be hope. If she stopped hoping, her people would too, and death would only come sooner. She owed it to them to keep going.

"There is hope, lord," she heard herself say hollowly. "There is always hope."

Imrahil gave her a long look, but she was too tired and empty to care what he thought of her.

"Imrahil," he said at last. "You can call me Imrahil."

That shook a little of the misery from her, and she looked up again. "I am called Tíniel in the North," she said.

At that moment, Mugura came hurtling through the door. She leapt to her feet.

"I have it, Khondyë!" he cried. "I have the makwa!"

* * *

 **The siege has begun, and the battle will soon follow! I wanted to do a bit more editing, but we're likely going to get evacuated this weekend so I thought I might as well post while I can!**

 **Please leave a review and tell me what you think! Happy Lunar New Year to you all.**

 **S**


	35. The Beginning of the End

**35 – THE BEGINNING OF THE END**

* * *

Tíniel made the antidote herself as quickly as she was able, pounding the root until it was crushed into a sticky paste and adding water to make it smoother. Then she sat by Faramir and dipped her finger in.

"That's all?" Imrahil asked her, looking at it sceptically. "It smells foul."

"That's all,' she confirmed. "If it enters through the bloodstream, it is fatal. But if it enters through the mouth…"

She tilted Faramir's head back and dripped some of it into his mouth. He coughed weakly, and she knew he'd swallowed some. She handed the rest of the mixture to Petakh.

"Give it to the others, fast as you can," she said. Petakh nodded and took it from her, and Tíniel immediately turned her attention back to Faramir. His face was ashen, a horrible green-grey colour, and covered in a sheen of sweat. His breaths were so faint that they barely made his chest rise. His skin was fiery hot.

"Will it work?" a familiar voice asked. Tíniel looked up and saw Gandalf leaning on tiredly on his staff, worry evident in his face.

"If the gods are good," she said, fighting to keep her despair from leaking into her voice. "But I fear… I'm just afraid that he…"

"He is going to die," Denethor said, emerging from behind Gandalf. His shoulders were hunched and his face haggard. "You and your _cure_ were too late. You have merely prolonged the inevitable."

Tíniel stared at him. "You cannot say such things," she whispered.

"I have seen it," he replied with the careless abandon of one who has given up. He sat heavily in the free chair by the bed and stared down at his son. "Now leave."

Tíniel saw Imrahil clench and unclench his hands. "My lord –"

"Leave," the Steward repeated emptily. There was a beat of stillness, and then Tíniel was the first to stand.

"You saw what the Enemy showed you," she said fiercely, "and they were lies."

Denethor didn't reply, and so they were forced to leave him there, his face more deathlike than his son's.

Anita shut the door after they had filed out. She too looked grim.

"There is nothing more to do for him," Imrahil said quietly. "The siege is underway outside the walls. We have much to see to."

"Then let us see to it," Gandalf replied. "You are with us, Tíniel?"

"Of course," she replied, trying to refocus. But Anita laid a hand on her arm.

"Before you go," she said quietly, "see to the boy you sent to get the roots. He has been weeping all this time."

Tíniel hesitated, but then nodded to Gandalf and Imrahil. "I will see you there."

Mugura was huddled under a tree in the gardens, his knees hugged to his chest. She knelt beside him and placed her hand on his bowed head.

"Mugura," she said gently. "You have brought honour to yourself with your deeds."

He jerked away from her touch, his head coming up. She could see in the dark that his eyes were wet.

"I am not worthy to be spoken to any longer, Khondyë," he replied, his voice cracking. "There was only dishonour in what I did down there."

"You saved lives, at great risk to your own," she said firmly. "What dishonour is there in that?"

A shudder ran through his body, and he beat a fist against his head in despair. "I told a lie, Tchakhura Khondyë!" he sobbed, the confession making him curl up tighter into himself.

"Oh," she whispered, sitting back on her heels. "Oh, my poor boy."

"I didn't know – I did not know what to do, and the man was asking me questions, and I just…" he squeezed his eyes shut.

Tíniel watched him helplessly. There was nothing she could think of to say that would make it better.

"I am a _khaviga_ ," she said quietly. "And yet our people still follow me."

"You betrayed three times," he said brokenly, looking up. "But have you ever told a lie?"

She hesitated, and for him that was answer enough. His tears started afresh and he buried his face in his hands. "The worst of it, Khondyë, was that it was so… so _easy._ "

Tíniel moved closer and gripped his shoulders, forcing him to look up at her. "Mugura, we are in war," she said. Her voice was quiet, but it carried authority. "The sun has gone dark. Enemies have become friends. A _khaviga_ is a Khondyë. There is no time to ponder our choices now, we must act. So I order you, boy, to do your duty. You are needed as a translator, and I will not have you hiding and weeping and shirking your responsibility."

A slightly guilty look crept into his eyes, but Tíniel supposed it was better than tears.

"In the meantime," she added, "know that I forgive you."

The guilty look was replaced by a tinge of relief, and Tíniel clapped him on the shoulder. "I have to go. Watch over our sick for me!"

* * *

The sky above them was as dark as night, though it was in fact the middle of the day. Aragorn looked glumly up at where the sun should have been. The only hint of its presence was a slight lightening in the gloom.

The crew of the _Haedannen_ had been dispersed among the fleet so that there was someone on each boat who actually knew how to sail. They had been making much better time, but Aragorn still feared they would be too late.

"Mighty disheartening, isn't it?" the pirate called Harûk said, sauntering over to join him at the hull of the ship. "The sky being like that makes me start to wonder what we're sailing into."

Aragorn shot him a puzzled look. "One would think you would have considered that before you came."

"Oh no," Harûk replied breezily. "I never think too hard about what I'm doing. Having plans takes the fun out of life."

Aragorn shook his head somewhat disbelievingly and turned back to face the banks of the Anduin. "You're a strange lot. How did you all come together?"

"We were hired," Harûk said. "Not all of us have shiny swords like you, and we have to work to buy them."

"But in your line of work there wasn't much money."

"True," Harûk admitted. His face turned semi-serious as he considered it. "But there was a place to hide from whatever we are running from."

Aragorn considered this. He supposed it was the real reason why Tíniel had spent so much time with them.

"Where are you from?" he asked the other man, curious. "I can't place your accent."

"But you can place the blackness of my skin," Harûk answered cheerfully. "I am from nowhere, really. But I was born deep down South, in the deserts of Far Harad. Hotter suns there than you've ever seen, white man. I left that place long ago. I've been at sea since I reached my ninth summer."

"That is a young age to leave your home."

"Bah. Everyone thinks they're too young, too old, too weak for something until they have to do it. Then they just do it," Harûk said. He leaned back on his elbows and faced the crew.

"See that man there? He's come far. He's an Easterling. That man, Jako, comes from a tribe near my own. Mahaya is from Eastern Harad, near Khand. Grimbold is our token Northman."

The man he pointed at looked up from his whittling. "What are you saying, Harûk?" he snapped.

"I was talking _about_ you, not _to_ you, Grimbold," Harûk returned with a grin. Aragorn heard Mahaya sigh at the exchange.

"You said your captain was missing, though?" Aragorn asked.

"Aye. We heard the rumours of the East Queen, and it was he who made the connection to our Tíniel. But when we wanted to go help her…" he shrugged. "Cold feet, I suppose. Remuil always liked the sea better than the land, so he stayed behind."

"An Elvish name," Aragorn mused.

"If you say so," Harûk said. "Have you ever seen her?"

"Hm?"

"Tíniel. The East Queen. Have you crossed paths with her?"

Aragorn hesitated. "Yes. She is a friend."

 _I love you._

The last words he'd spoken to her in the doom dream they'd shared echoed through his mind. He hadn't dreamed of her since then, and something constricted in his chest. He wondered if she was alright, if she was alive.

"She was a friend to me too," Harûk said, a smile twitching his lips and his gaze far away. "One of the best. She would argue like anything, aye, but she was _fun_ , you know? I missed her when she was taken."

"She seems to leave people missing her wherever she goes," Aragorn agreed, and Harûk chuckled.

"Sounds like her, sure enough. None of this lot can match her for a laugh. Mahaya will talk, but, by the great blue whale, he is the most boring man that ever sailed the sea. Grimbold is a right pain in the –"

"You shut your _mouth_ , Harûk, or I shall do it for you," Grimbold growled.

"She could fight too, as well as a man," Harûk went on, barely pausing. "You know how the Khandi women are, and she is the best among them. She once –"

"Stars, by the way you talk about her, it sounds as though you are in love," the man called Jako grumbled. "Can we please have just a minute of quiet before we go and die for a bunch of Northmen?"

"Just because _you_ fancied her," Harûk shot back.

Grimbold snorted, looking up from his half-carved bear. "That's true enough. Remember when you tried to seduce her, and she put you in your place?"

"Remember when she bested _you_ in a duel three times in a row, all within five minutes?" Jako retorted.

Harûk burst out laughing at the memory, slapping his hand on the hull. Grimbold scowled.

"Don't act as though she never beat you, Harûk. What happened that time? The deck was slippery where you were standing?"

Jako and a few others of the _Haedannen_ snickered, and the smile slid off Harûk's face. 'It was no story, Grimbold. Mahaya agreed that there was tar on the deck!"

Mahaya shook his head. "Leave me out of it," he said, holding up his hands.

Halbarad sidled up to stand with Aragorn as the argument gathered momentum around them.

"I only met her once, but she seemed much too serious to have survived living among men like these," he commented.

Aragorn couldn't help but smile. "She would have been fine," he said. "She has a sharp wit, when times are easier. She can make anyone laugh."

Halbarad's lips twitched. "By the way you talk about her, it sounds as though you are in love," he said, repeating Jako's words from earlier.

The smile slid from Aragorn's face. "Shut up," he said. "Go and sharpen your sword or something. Go and fight with Harûk."

The pirate's head turned at the sound of his name, and his face was bright and eager. "Does someone want to duel me?" he asked hopefully.

Halbarad glared at Aragorn, but then stepped forward and bowed slightly. "It would be my honour."

Aragorn turned back and watched the shore slide past. The time could not pass quickly enough.

* * *

Tíniel stood at the wall with Gandalf, Lord Hirluin of Pinnath Gelin, Lord Dervorin and one of his skinny sons, and Prince Imrahil.

It was well into the night, and the blackness was almost impenetrable. But from the sounds drifting up from the plain below, Tíniel could guess at the sight that would greet them come morning. Her chest felt tight, and it felt like there was something heavy on her shoulders.

"There must be thousands of them there," Dervorin's son said, his face pale in the torchlight. Tíniel made no answer, and neither did the other men. There was nothing they could say.

"Any news from Rohan?" Hirluin asked. "Will they come?"

Again, Tíniel hesitated, meeting Imrahil's eyes.

"They would be foolish to," she said finally.

"I heard there was an army of them marching as we speak," Dervorin's son said desperately. "And with each Rider, a Halfling behind him on his horse."

"A likely tale," Gandalf snorted.

"We need to organise our defence," Imrahil added quickly, before the conversation could devolve further. "Do we have archers? Missiles?"

"We have rocks," Dervorin said, "and the city has trebuchets. They will be effective."

"I have five hundred bowmen," Hirluin offered. "We will man the walls."

"We need to make sure the first circle at least is cleared of anyone who is not fighting," Tíniel said. "That's where they'll hit first."

Hirluin snorted. "There is no way that anything they launch at us it getting over this wall," he said disparagingly. Tíniel raised an eyebrow, and Gandalf gave him a look that would wither a rose.

Fortunately for Hirluin, their conversation was interrupted.

"Tíniel!" Hirgon cried, jogging up to them and bowing. "I mean, my lady! The party to Rohan has returned!"

Tíniel drew in a sharp breath. "You mean Ingold and his men?"

"Yes," he puffed. "I went all the way up to the Steward to report it, but he didn't respond, and I didn't know who to tell, so I thought I would find you, but you're all the way down _here_ …"

"Calm down," she said, placing her hand on his shoulder. "My lords, this is Hirgon, Denethor's errand-runner." She turned back to him. "Report anything further to us now, not the Steward. Where are they now?"

"They were in the Houses of Healing, lady."

"Well done, Hirgon," she said, and turned to Imrahil. "We should go. The news might not be good, but if there is any chance at all that Rohan will come, we should know."

* * *

"There is no chance that Rohan will come," Ingold told them tiredly.

"Did you meet them?" Tíniel asked desperately. "Did you see anyone?"

"We saw not a soul," Ingold replied. "We were hardly on the road, for fear of being found by orcs or Southrons. The land is crawling with them."

"Is there no hope that they will ride to our rescue?" Gandalf asked. "Théoden was preparing a muster last we saw him."

"They will not come now," Ingold replied, shooting a fearful glance in the direction of the plains. "It is too late."

"But… we _need_ them," Imrahil said bleakly.

"We _need_ an army ten times the size of what we've got," Tíniel said. "We need ten mumakil and a dragon. But we don't have them, so let's not cry over them."

"Well said," Gandalf said. "Now, we have work to do."

* * *

The next day dawn as they had expected it too – in darkness. But the dull greyness that the sun brought with it was just enough to reveal the Pelennor Fields before the walls of the White City.

As far as the eye could see, there was a moving, howling, shrieking mass of bodies. It seemed that Sauron had sent all the armies of Mordor to face them, and Tíniel feared – even _felt_ – that they would be too much. There was something in the air, something pushing down on her shoulders, something that tasted bitterly familiar. There was doom in the air, and she knew that today she would lose something.

"What are they waiting for?" Tcharum muttered beside her. She glanced at him. He was dressed in his full leather armour, his _mithiri_ on his hip and his two _vokhu_ sheathed on his back. Around his face was wrapped a new _vadi_ , cut from the dark blue cloth that Tíniel had stolen with Anita.

"Thank you, brother," she said quietly.

He looked down at her. "For what?"

"Everything," she replied. "I am a _khaviga_ and you took me back. You led the _bamyë_ when I was gone. You defended me to Vadrë, held me when I cried. You are the best brother I could have wished for."

Tcharum watched her closely, his face grave and his brows creased. He took one of her hands in his.

"Remember what Vadrë always told us about battles like this?" he asked. "If you think you are going to die, you will die, he said. Do you think you are going to die, Tchakhura?"

She hesitated, seeing the spark of fear behind his dark brown eyes.

"It isn't something I think, brother," she said quietly. "It's something I know. Something will happen to me today, and it won't be good."

Tcharum stared at her, wide-eyed. A single tear spilled down his cheek, and he pulled her into a crushing hug.

"Then I love you, sister."

"I love you too, Tcharum."

They stood unmoving for a moment, and Tíniel could feel Tcharum's great frame trembling ever so slightly. She squeezed her eyes shut and held him tighter.

"If I die and you live, take the _hamarakhi_ ," she whispered. "Take a wife, and take the _bamyë_ far away from all of this. Have children. Find somewhere to live in peace."

"If we lose this war," he said, "there will be no peace."

She released him and brushed the tear track from his cheek. "Then we must win."

* * *

It didn't take long for it to begin. The soldiers in the City could tell the attack was coming, because the howls and shouted insults from below had morphed into a growl of anticipation. But that didn't mean they were ready for what came.

Without warning, dozens of trebuchets were fired. Huge rocks and smaller boulders were flung at the City walls, sailing through the air like unearthly birds.

"They won't clear the outer wall," Lord Hirluin said nervously, gripping his sword. "It's impossible. Impossible."

He was almost right; the smaller boulders came first, and they clattered and crashed against the stone exterior of the wall. But then the larger ones came, stones that could only have been lifted by trolls, and by some magic, they made it into the first circle.

" _Damn_ it all," Gandalf muttered.

"Watch out!" Imrahil bellowed, and Tíniel gritted her teeth as men were tossed aside and crushed like nothing more than beetles. The boulders all rolled to a stop, ugly lumps of red-stained grey among the white. There was an eerie quiet.

"What next?" Lord Dervorin murmured.

He was answered when the enemy launched a new kind of missile into the air. They looked like smaller rocks, but they were strangely shaped, strangely coloured…

They began to fall in the first circle, and Tíniel quickly ducked to avoid being hit by one, and she glanced down to see it as it rolled to a stop. There was hair, eyes, an open mouth, pallid skin, blood everywhere…

"Heads," she gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "They're _heads_."

They were white-skinned and grey-eyed, the heads of Gondorian prisoners that the enemy had taken. Cries of horror and despair rang out across the walls. Courage in the face of flying stone was one thing, but this was another.

"They are cruel," shouted Imrahil. "No matter! We are strong!"

There was a rumble of agreement, but Tíniel didn't join in.

"What's that?" she asked, pointing into the black mass below them. Something huge was being pushed toward them.

Gandalf tightened his grip on his staff. "A battering ram," he said. "The siege will not last long. The battle will begin."

* * *

Aragorn stood grimly at the helm of the ship.

"Almost there," Halbarad said quietly. "Are you ready?"

"I can't be," Aragorn replied tightly. "We do not know what we will find when we arrive. A battle? A city already sacked and burning? Minas Tirith in peace?"

"I think we can cross that last option off," Halbarad said darkly. "Look over yonder."

Aragorn looked, and his throat tightened. The land was covered in the darkness that had spewed from Mordor, but on the horizon, there was a dull orange light.

"Fire?" he breathed. "Have they lit the city on fire?"

"We will find out soon enough," Halbarad said.

* * *

 **A thousand apologies for the lateness of this chapter. I am exhausted and slightly relocated, but the fires appear to have burnt themselves out for now. Time to go back to the crippling drought!**

 **Thank you all for the reviews – and never fear: lots of action will be coming up very, very soon.**

 **See you soon...**

 **S**


	36. The Fall of the Rómentári

**36 – THE FALL OF THE RÓMENTÁRI**

* * *

Tíniel wiped sweat from under her _vadi_ and ducked behind a pillar for a moment. The gates had broken down, and the army had entered the first circle of Minas Tirith. Horses were all but useless now, while the fighting went on in the streets, so Tíniel's _variag_ fought on foot, viciously and to the death.

"Take a rest!" Tcharum said to her, slamming against the pillar beside her and breathing hard. "You've been going ceaselessly for more than an hour!"

"I'm taking my rest now," she said. "We can't afford to drop our guard."

He gave her a reproachful look – even here, in the thick of battle, at the end of the world, he was trying to tell her off – and shook his head. "Go to the higher circles. Take a look at the situation. We are fighting in the dark here, and we need to know what's going on."

She sighed. "You're right, of course."

"No surprise there."

"I'll be back as soon as I can," she said. "I promise."

He took her hand and kissed it swiftly, and then he was gone back into the fray. She pushed away from the pillar and took off at a run.

* * *

She found Gandalf muttering in a courtyard in the fourth circle, his eyes shut.

"Tíniel!" came a call, and she turned to see Pippin's pale face.

"What is he doing?" she asked, jerking her head toward the wizard.

"Spells, I imagine," Pippin said. "He's been like that for almost half an hour now. I didn't want to interrupt him."

Tíniel nodded tightly. "Have you seen Imrahil?"

"He was headed down to the first circle, last I heard."

"Denethor?"

The hobbit's face tensed. "Still by Faramir. And… it isn't boding well for him. The medicine was too late, they think." He hesitated and reached out to touch her hand gently. "Sorry."

She pursed her lips but made no further comment, moving over to stand before Gandalf, who showed no sign of realising her presence.

"Gandalf," she said. He continued muttering.

" _Gandalf_ ," she repeated. "Gods help me, or I'll knock your hat off."

Predictably, those were the words that jolted him out of his trance. "Tíniel," he said bewilderedly. "Where did you come from?"

"Below," she said. "How is our standing?"

"We are holding them off, barely," he said. "There is not a…" he trailed off suddenly, his eyes growing dark, and Tíniel frowned.

"There is not a what?"

His face sobered and he gripped his staff. "Go to the men," he commanded, his eyes on the roiling, dark sky.

"What? What men?"

"Any men! Any of our soldiers that you can find!" His piercing eyes found hers, and there was an urgency in them that she'd never seen before. "Now is your time, Rómentári! Here is the darkness, real and unseen! You are the light!"

Tíniel gaped at him, but before she could ask another question, there was a long, ear-shattering shriek.

"Oh dear," Pippin whimpered. "That can't be very good."

Tíniel turned and drew her sword in one smooth motion, but she could already feel the cold terror seeping into the very marrow of her bones. The _mithiri_ dropped to hang limply by her side and she watched as the leader of the Ringwraiths rose ominously on his steed to hover before them.

"The Witch-King," Gandalf said hollowly. Around them, Tíniel was vaguely aware of grown men crying in terror, abandoning their posts and running for their lives.

"Tíniel," Gandalf said, his voice cutting through the reverie of horror. " _Tíniel._ Do you fear death?"

"No," she whispered, her eyes on the beast. "I have felt it coming for me today. But I do not want it."

"The worst this wraith will give you is death," Gandalf said, readying his sword. "So do not fear it. Go, and lead as you are meant to!"

She squeezed her eyes tight shut, fending off the icy chill that threatened to envelope her. "Gods," she whispered in Khandi. " _Hamariag_ … if ever there was a time I needed you, it is now."

Immediately, she felt something strange and warm brush her mind, but it was quickly gone. The message was clear: she was on her own. They were watching her, but they would not be of any help.

She expected panic to come. Something terrible would happen to her today, she had felt the doom in the air. A beast from the depths of Mordor was in the sky right before her. She had asked the gods for help and they had abandoned her to her fate. She should have been afraid, despairing, but instead an odd kind of calm washed over her. This was the end, she was sure.

She opened her eyes and nodded at Gandalf, then turned away.

"You there!" she cried at a whimpering Gondorian soldier. "Give me your horse!"

Still cowering, he passed her the reigns, and she swiftly mounted.

"After me!" she bellowed, wheeling the horse around. One or two heads came up, but the rest remained hidden. The moans of terror continued. Gritting her teeth, Tíniel drew her two _mithiri_ and clashed them together violently, momentarily breaking the spell of the Nazgul. Men let go of whatever they'd been clinging to in fear and staggered to their feet.

"Men of Gondor!" she cried, and now their faces turned to her. "Pick up your swords! The Enemy is upon us, but Gondor must not fall!"

They began to gather before her, dirty, tired and afraid, but she shook her head.

"There is no place for fear here," she went on. "We have only two choices here: to live in freedom, or to die. Life in slavery is no life!"

There were grunts of agreement now. Men gripped their swords with growing determination, and resolve began to creep back into their eyes.

"Follow me now!" Tíniel shouted, her horse sidestepping as she stood in the stirrups and brandished one of her knives. "Follow me to freedom, or to death!" There was a roar of assent now, and the ring of blades as they were freed from their scabbards. "For the free people! With me!"

She wheeled the horse and took off. Tens of men on horseback rode at her heels, and behind them ran tens more of foot soldiers.

"For Minas Tirith!" came the cries from behind her. "For freedom! Follow the East Queen! To death and to glory! Follow the Rómentári!"

Tíniel heard none of it. Her focus narrowed until all she could hear were the grating breaths in her throat and the rush of blood in her ears, and all she could see was the enemy. The first orc she saw lost his head before he had time to realise that she was there.

When they reached the wall, the sight of reinforcements provoked a cheer from the Khandi fighters. They began the task of pushing back the enemy that was pouring into the city, but even as she stabbed and swung at monster and man alike, Tíniel could see it was useless.

"To the fields!" she cried, unsure if anyone heard her. "To the fields! We can draw them out!"

She didn't know if anyone heard her, but she went out anyway.

Tíniel didn't know how long it had gone on. She didn't know what time it was, whether it was day or night; she didn't know where she was, though she knew it must be hundreds of yards from the walls, more than half a mile.

The red haze of focussed killing had faded into a weary grey. All she knew was the mechanical rise and fall of her blade, the squelch of the mud beneath her boots, the softness of Borund's _vadi_ against her face and the screams of dying creatures.

It must have been going on for hours. She didn't know, but she was tired. Her muscles ached, and she knew that eventually, she would slow. The sense of doom, the knowledge of her death, sat heavily on her shoulders, an extra weight to bear. It would come soon. There were so many of them, too many…

At the edge of her conscience, she heard a horn sound. She forced her head to lift, to glance toward the sound, and her laboured breath caught in her throat.

"Rohan," she whispered. Unbidden, a tear escaped her eye. "They have come…"

With renewed shrieks of outrage, the orc army veered toward the new threat. Where before she'd been mired, surrounded by enemy fighters, Tíniel now stood alone, watching the battle unfold before her.

Rohan's charge tore through them. If she'd had the energy, she would have laughed; the green and gold of the Rohirric banners was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. From afar, she could see Théoden, and one she thought might be Éomer on his right.

 _We are saved,_ she thought. _We are saved…_

Then the feeling of fate that had been heavy in the air around her all day became a crushing weight, and she looked up, her chest suddenly hollow. The Witch-King flew silently over her, headed directly toward the king.

"No," she whispered, and suddenly new strength flooded into her. She ran across the fields, sword in hand, leaping over fallen men and orcs to get to her destiny.

But she wasn't fast enough. Even as she sprinted toward them, Rohan's army scattered before the Nazgul. Its beast landed heavily on the ground and with one swing of its mace, the Witch-King sent Théoden and his horse flying.

"Witch-King!" she screamed across the battlefield, trying to drag his attention away. For a moment, the great, metal helm swung around to see who had called, but it looked away just as quickly, dismissing her as no threat.

She needed to prove herself someone important, she realised. She needed to make him want to kill her, to _need_ it. She had to draw her killer to herself.

"Witch-King!" she cried out again. She felt his cold gaze sweep over her, but she shoved the feeling of icy terror away. There was too much at stake to succumb to his spell now.

"I am Tchakhura, Khondyë of the Maruvikh tribe of Khand, leader of Northmen and Southrons alike, friend to Isildur's heir and Queen of the East!"

This time, the Nazgul turned to face her. Something cold slithered down her spine.

"I have crept beneath your gaze many times," she said, pulling her _vadi_ away from her face and baring her teeth in a grin. "But this time I will best you face to face."

The Witch-King Slid off the back of his beast, and began to advance towards Tíniel, brandishing an iron-studded mace. Tíniel's mouth grew dry, but she began walking toward her enemy, determined not to show fear. She tightened her grip on her curved sword and drew one of her long knives. She only had to hold his attention for as long as she could, to give Rohan the best chance to do some damage.

"Gods be good," she whispered.

He moved first, swinging the mace up around his head and in a deadly arc until it slammed into the ground directly next to her. Tíniel jumped away, catching her breath, but she knew he had missed on purpose. It had been meant to scare her, and she would not be scared. She darted in, slashing at his knees with her sword. The metal shrieked against his black armour but did not penetrate. She scurried back just as quickly and waited for his next move.

Behind him, she could see Rohan regrouping, the wroth of the Witch-King no longer focussed on them. She gave no sign of celebration, but locked her eyes back onto her enemy.

He swung the heavy mace again, and this time it was headed straight for her. It was frighteningly quick, and she threw herself bodily to one side, rolling to her feet.

The Witch-King laughed, a horrible, grating sound. "Foolish mortal," he hissed, yanking the mace's head from its crater in the ground. "You must wish death upon yourself."

She grinned wildly. "I may be mortal, but the gods are not," she said, "and they are behind me every step that I take."

"No man can kill me," he sneered, readying his weapon again. "Not even one with imaginary god-friends."

"Not the first time I've had to do a man's job," she shot back, and dived out of the way of his next swing.

It continued without talking after that; he swung at her, almost teasing her in his arrogance, and she leaped out of the way. Her escapes got narrower every time, but between every swing, she would dart in to slash at his armour. He was a good foot taller than any man she'd ever seen, and his armour was impenetrable. The action was useless, but at least it infuriated him.

For a moment, he seemed to tire of his game. The next swing was lightning fast, and she barely escaped. One of the spikes on the mace caught the cloth of her _vadi_ and ripped it off her head. She cried out and scrambled back.

"Tíniel!" came a cry, and she risked a glance back to see Éowyn running towards her.

"Get _back_!" she shouted, her eyes back on the Nazgul. "Go away, Éowyn! This is my fight, not yours!"

"Look out!" Éowyn shrieked, and Tíniel only just avoided having her skull crushed like a berry.

"You shouldn't even _be_ here," she growled, getting back to her feet – but as soon as she did, she was forced to leap back again. "He is playing with me! Get away while you can, _please!_ "

A sinister laugh from the Ringwraith only confirmed what she'd said, and she rolled desperately to the side as the mace thumped sickeningly into the ground beside her.

"I won't leave you," Éowyn shouted back stubbornly.

A cry went up from the direction of the river, and for a moment, the Nazgul's head turned to look. Tíniel scrambled in and slashed wildly at him, trying desperately to find a gap in his metal armour. There was none, and she leapt back quickly when he turned back to face her.

"Tíniel," came Éowyn's voice. She didn't turn to look.

"There are pirates," Éowyn went on, her voice tremulous. "There is a fleet of black-sailed ships coming up the Anduin. It is lost. We are all lost..."

"No, we aren't," Tíniel gasped, suddenly filled with hope. She didn't dare look away from her opponent, to lose focus, but this time she didn't let him move first. She leapt forward, and he blocked her powerful stroke with the mace. It sent an awful judder up her arm, but she ignored it and attacked again.

His next block came with some kind of pulse of power, and it threw her back several feet.

"Wait… Tíniel, they're attacking the orcs!" Éowyn cried, her voice alive with hope and disbelief. "The pirates – they're on our side!"

Tíniel shook the cold out of her bones and climbed out of the dust. She couldn't afford to listen, couldn't afford the distraction…

The Witch-King swung the mace and instead of dodging, she parried it with her sword and knife together. It was a mistake; the sword shattered, and the knife was struck from her hand. The terrifying chill shot through her arm, and she cried out, the pain forcing her to her knees.

"Tíniel, no!" Éowyn yelled. Tíniel looked up and saw the Nazgul raising his mace. She could see no face in the blackness under his helm, but she knew he was going to kill her this time. But just as he swung downward, something came between them.

"Éowyn, don't," she whispered, but it was too late. The mace came down hard on Éowyn's shield, and there was a sickening crack and a scream as her arm broke beneath it.

Tíniel groaned and pushed herself to her feet.

"No more of that," she ground out. "I am the one you want to kill, remember?"

The Witch-King growled at her flippancy. "Ready to die, East-Queen?" he snarled. She offered him a grin and drew her one remaining knife. She almost didn't see the mace coming down on her, but at the last minute she swayed to the side.

It wasn't enough. One of its spikes ripped through the left sleeve of her tunic, opening a gash that ran almost the full length of her upper arm. She screamed and staggered backwards.

She could feel the cold seeping into her blood like poison, but she didn't give in. She tried to use the pain as a way to stay awake, to keep her focus sharp, but blackness pulled at the edge of her vision.

"No man can kill me," the Nazgul said again, stepping forwards to close the distance between them.

"I'm no man," she returned, gritting her teeth and squeezing the hilt of her knife. A kind of odd, single-minded calm came over her, and she knew she could keep fighting, knew she wouldn't die just yet, knew she could hold his attention for just a moment longer –

" _Tíniel!"_

It was a voice she knew in her heart, a voice she would have crossed the world for, a voice she never thought she'd hear again. She turned to find him in the chaos around them, and she saw him instantly.

"Aragorn," she tried to call, but it came out more like a whimper. "You came."

She thought she saw his eyes soften, but it could have been her imagination across the distance that separated them. And then pain exploded in her side.

The mace caught her full in the ribs, the spikes tearing holes in her skin, and it tossed her bodily away.

Tíniel lay there for one second, two seconds, three. The pain was beyond any she'd felt before, and it raged through her body like a fire. She knew she couldn't give up; she knew she had to go on, but through the haze of that unbelievable pain, she only wanted relief. As four seconds turned into five, she gave in to the darkness.

She let the cold take her body, and it brought a kind of sickening respite. Her eyes fluttered half open, half closed, and the world began fading around her. She noticed things, but they slipped through her memory as quickly as they happened. She saw Éowyn plunge her sword into the Witch-King's head; she saw smoke rising from a fire nearby; she saw a man of Rohan lose his arm to an orc's sword; she saw Éowyn crumple to the ground.

Some part of her was aware of a shadow blocking out the lightening sky, a face hovering over hers. She was aware of the shouting, someone shouting her name. She was aware of the drops of warm water that fell onto her face. She felt him take her by the shoulders and shake her violently. At the edge of her conscience, she heard the desperate pleading.

But slipping into the cold was the easiest thing she'd ever done, and as the world faded to an infinite black, the last thing she saw was a pair of grey eyes.


	37. Aftermath

**37 – AFTERMATH**

* * *

Aragorn's army cut through their enemies like a knife through butter.

He led the charge, the crew of the _Haedannen_ on his heels, and behind them, the army from the Paths of the Dead. They were a fearsome sight, and he felt a trickle of remorse for the tens of orcs and Southrons that were falling under the sweep of their swords. But it was soon lost in the red haze that battle brought.

He drew further and further away from the bank of the river and deeper and deeper into the chaos that was the battle. He saw black armour everywhere he turned, the brown of the mud, the red of spilled blood.

And it was growing lighter. The dark clouds in the sky were breaking up, and slivers of silver light were beginning to tentatively show themselves. Aragorn only allowed himself a fraction of a second to look, but it lifted his heart immediately.

He'd made it, with the army he'd promised. The battle wasn't over, the city wasn't burning. And they were _winning_.

Nothing could kill the savage euphoria he felt as he slashed and stabbed – nothing, until he heard a familiar voice.

"Tíniel, no!"

He whirled, and saw what must have been Éowyn, dressed as a Rider of Rohan, standing before none other than the Witch-King of Angmar. She sprinted forward and threw her shield up to meet the arc of his mace. It split the shield in two, and her scream of pain was piercing.

But Aragorn was frozen in place, his mouth trying to make sounds that didn't come out. His eyes combed the ground around the Nazgul, looking for one thing. Then he saw her, pushing herself up agonisingly from the ground, drawing a knife from the sheath on her back, grinning fiercely at the Nazgul before her. It was Tíniel.

She looked tattered, exhausted. She swayed out of the way of the mace, so late that it looked like a fluke, a trick of the light. But it caught her arm, ripping through her skin, and she screamed in pain and staggered backwards.

"No," Aragorn whispered, and the shock jolted him into action. He began to run towards her, desperate to do something to stop what was about to happen. She was so close, but he wasn't going to be there soon enough, wouldn't be able to save her – he'd never, never been able to save her…

But she was stepping forward again, brandishing the dagger, challenging the Nazgul, the fool, trying to provoke him into one final attack, and he had to stop her, had to stop it from happening –

" _Tíniel_!" he bellowed, coming to a standstill, and immediately she turned. Her lips moved, making the shape of his name, but he was too far away to hear. Somehow there was a shadow of a smile on her lips.

And then it happened, so easily, so quickly and without ceremony that for a split second he didn't believe it. But it had happened. The Witch-King's mace crunched into her side and flung her away. Her body crumpled mid-air, and she landed heavily and finally, face down.

Nothing mattered anymore except for his heart breaking inside him, and the fighting disappeared around him as he ran to her. The battle could fight itself, for all he cared; he knew, without knowing how, that this was the most important thing. He fell to his knees beside her.

She was bleeding heavily, and one of her arms was bent horribly the wrong way. Her spine seemed somehow twisted, and her skin was freezing to the touch. He turned her over as gently as he could, cradling her, wincing at the horrendous pain he knew he must be causing her, but she didn't seem to feel it.

"Tíniel," he breathed. Her eyes fluttered halfway shut, and he touched her cheek. "Tíniel! Tíniel, please!"

There was not response. Her breathing grew faint, and the part of her face that he was touching grew colder still. He began to cry.

"Tíniel!" he shouted, shaking her, pressing his cheek to her forehead, her blood soaking steadily into his tunic. "Tíniel, wake up! Wake up for Valar's sake!"

He was pathetic, he knew it, but he so desperately wanted for this not to be the end, so desperately wanted to see her and talk to her just one more time. His body shook with sobs. Her arm was so slippery from her blood that his hand kept slipping off.

He cupped her cheek again and tried to look into her eyes, to see some spark of recognition in their darkness. One of his tears dropped onto her face.

"Tíniel, come back to me," he pleaded. There was nothing, no answering flicker, no puff of breath. "Tíniel… Tchakhura, please…"

Nothing.

Grief crashed over him like a wave, and a strangled, animal-like sound escaped his mouth. It wasn't until he heard someone calling him that he looked up.

"Aragorn!" Halbarad cried, and crouched opposite him. His eyes flicked down to Tíniel, limp in his arms, and his face filled with pity. He reached down and gently pushed her eyes closed.

"Valar, I am sorry my friend," he said. "But you must come with me. We need to go, but we'll come back for her."

Aragorn tried to speak, but he couldn't say anything.

"Let her go now," Halbarad said, helping him ease her out of his arms and onto the ground. "We will come back for her. I promise you."

* * *

Hours later, the battle had finally ended.

Aragorn was numb. He'd stepped back into his role as a captain, but he was barely going through the motions. The ghost army had disappeared when he dismissed them, their oath fulfilled. The wounded were being gathered, and the leaders were meeting in a tent at the gates of the city to discuss their next move.

Aragorn stepped into the tent. Everything seemed to move slowly about him, like he was underwater.

"So we have won, for now," Gandalf said. "The battle was ours, but I fear we saw but a fraction of Sauron's troops. What next?"

"We rest, just for a little," Imrahil said tiredly. "We are no use in this state. We can plan later, when our minds are clearer and our thoughts sharper. Gandalf, you look exhausted. I feel I have not slept in days. The Rohirrim are grieving the death of their king. And Aragorn, you are covered in blood."

"It is not mine," Aragorn said mechanically.

"Where is the lady Tíniel?" asked a man – some lord of Minas Tirith whose name he didn't know. "It was she who led us to victory today."

There was a long silence while everyone glanced about and Aragorn stared at the table.

"Dead," he said at last, his voice an affront to the silence. "She died today."

"Valar, no," Imrahil exclaimed.

"It cannot be," Gandalf muttered. "It _cannot_ be! There is more yet for her to do!"

Aragorn looked up at him. The wizard looked tired, old, and sad.

"I held her," he said hollowly. "It is true."

"Then let our counsel be held later," Gandalf said. "We are weary, and grieving. The war is far from over, yes, but the battle is won."

They all rose from their seats, but as they did, slow footsteps were heard outside. There was muttering from the guard at the tent's door, and then the flap was pushed back. Éomer and Tcharum entered, each carrying a body and each with a face of stone.

"Clear the table," Éomer said. There was no expression in his voice, and two of the men that Aragorn didn't know did so. Éomer and Tcharum advanced and laid their sisters side by side. Aragorn could barely look at Tíniel. She didn't look like herself at all; she looked bruised and cut and savaged and still. She looked like a corpse.

"It only makes the burden heavier, to see it before our eyes," Gandalf said, leaning on his staff.

"Indeed," Imrahil agreed, looking down at Tíniel sadly. "I knew her too short a time. This is a severe loss."

"Too much has been lost today," Éomer said roughly.

"This war was never going to be light for casualties," Halbarad said gravely.

"Who shut eyes of my sister?" Tcharum spoke up suddenly. There was a silence, and everyone stared at him. He stood unmoving, his strong jaw clenched, staring down at Tíniel. Aragorn saw that he was wearing a silver medallion around his neck – the same that Tíniel had worn.

"Who killed her, you mean?" one of the lords tried.

"Who shut her eyes?" Tcharum repeated.

"I did," Halbarad said hesitantly. "I am sorry, she was dead and I…"

A tear slipped from Tcharum's unmoving eyes, and he muttered something in Khandi. There was another long silence. Aragorn bowed his head and rubbed his hands together. A sickly coldness seemed to emanate from the two bodies.

"Let us go," Gandalf said at last. "These two will be honoured in time." Men began filing out, but Aragorn felt he could not move.

"How wrong," Imrahil murmured, moving to stand over Éowyn, "that something so beautiful should be still and dead."

"And yet it is so," Aragorn added quietly.

Suddenly, Imrahil's brows creased, and he drew his dagger. He rubbed it with his tunic so that it shone, and then he held it underneath Éowyn's nose.

"What do you think you are doing?" Éomer asked, a note of warning filling his empty voice.

"Do you not think it odd that they are so cold, when they are dead?" Imrahil said. "It is unnatural…"

Aragorn slowly got to his feet. He didn't want to let himself hope, not now. But…

Imrahil lifted the dagger to his eyes, and they widened. He showed it to the others in the tent, and each of them saw the faint fog fade from the blade.

"The lady Éowyn is alive," Imrahil announced.

Immediately, there was a flurry of movement.

"We need to get her to a healer!" Éomer shouted, his face suddenly alive with fear.

"Take her into the City, to the Houses," Aragorn ordered. "I will see to her, as soon as I – I just need to know…"

"Aragorn," Tcharum said, taking him by the shoulders. "Tchakhura, she is dead? I do not understand. Tell me."

"Let me see," Aragorn breathed, and drew his dagger. He leaned down and gently pressed the blade against Tíniel's lips. Her skin was cold, freezing cold to the touch, and as he waited, he grew more and more sure: she could not be dead.

His heart thundering, he removed his dagger, and stared at it. Then he looked up at Tcharum and swallowed thickly.

"She is alive," he said.

* * *

The Halls of Healing were packed and bustling. There were screams of pain, the shouting of the Healers, the sobbing of those who had just lost someone they'd known. Aragorn, and Tcharum behind him, heard none of it.

A guard went to stop them, but when he saw who Aragorn carried in his arms, he paled and showed them to a separate room in the Houses. It was small, but when the door shut behind them, it was quiet.

Aragorn laid Tíniel on the bed and once more, just to be sure, pressed his dagger to her lips. There was a faint fog on it, and he exhaled quickly. She was alive, yes, but she'd been dying for hours. He didn't know how long she had left.

"Tcharum, do you know what kingsfoil is?' he asked urgently.

Tcharum frowned. "What?"

Legolas and Gimli burst into the room.

"Aragorn! All the men are saying that… Mahal be good," Gimli choked out, his eyes falling on Tíniel. Legolas said nothing, but a shadow fell over his eyes.

"Needles, thread," Aragorn said unsteadily. "Bring them here. Water too, cold and warm. Cloth, and bandages – lots of bandages. Poppyseed, for if she wakes. And athelas. As much as you can find."

"It is done," Legolas said quietly, and left.

Aragorn began to strip Tíniel of her armour, unstrapping the leather pieces from her torso as gently and as quickly as he could. Once it was done, he drew his knife and began to cut her tunic and peel it off her. It was the hardest thing he had ever done, and he wanted to throw up.

Tíniel's arms and torso were covered in cuts and wide gashes that still bled slowly. Black bruises bloomed across her body. It was clear that many of her ribs were broken, and her lower spine twisted in a strange way that made Aragorn afraid.

It was an appalling sight. Aragorn heard Gimli gasp and Tcharum inhale shakily. Legolas burst into the room, panting, but he stopped short when he saw Tíniel, half-naked and unconscious.

"I have what you asked for," he said quietly, his eyes fixed on her. "Can you… can you heal her?"

"I don't know," Aragorn muttered, taking the items quickly and preparing them.

"Another thing," Legolas said. "Harûk the pirate is outside, with Mahaya. Also, a woman named Petakh and three Khandi soldiers. And a Healer named Anita, her son Bergil, and two soldiers of Gondor whom I do not know. And also Merry and Pippin."

"Tell them they must wait," Aragorn said, throwing a cloth into the warm water to soak. "There is nothing for them to see yet."

"Very well," Legolas said, and touched Aragorn's shoulder gently. Then he turned away. "Gimli. Let us go."

Aragorn began to break the athelas leaves up and scatter them into the hot water as the two friends left. Tcharum sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and touched a finger to Tíniel's face.

"Brother," he said, his voice trembling. "She will live?"

Aragorn looked up at him. He was clenching the silver medallion that hung around his neck so tightly that his hand was shaking.

"There is always hope," he replied. He only wished he could believe it.

* * *

The first thing Tíniel knew was a haze of emptiness. There were words she could hear, but not understand, in voices that brought visions of misty faces from her past. But they slipped away before she could grasp them, and the emptiness reigned again.

The next thing that came was the cold. It crept through her body first insidiously, and then swiftly. It brought with it memories of terror, of the knowledge of death and the pain it had brought. The shivers wracked her body with violent spasms, and she could feel hands on her, trying to hold her down, keep her still. But there was a clean scent in the air that calmed the shaking, so she forced herself to breathe deeply, and at length, it subsided.

But then it was replaced by the pain. Like the cold, it crept in steadily, but then hit her like a mumak at full speed. It was unbearable, and it came from everywhere. She could hear herself moaning, but she couldn't stop it. It hurt too much, and she wished for death.

Something cool and hard touched her lips, and soon afterwards a substance was tipped down her throat. She swallowed by force of habit. For a while nothing changed, but soon a delicious numbness swept through her, and the alertness brought by the pain faded back into a haze.

It took hours, perhaps even days, before enough of her conscience gathered together in her head for her to properly wake. She'd been given a dose of the magic liquid not long ago, but the pain was just beginning to return.

She drew in a deep breath, and the pain in her torso exploded. She waited for the lights to fade from the back of her eyelids. Shallow breathing it was, then.

It was an effort to even open her eyes. At last she managed it, and blinked a few times. It was dark, but silver moonlight streamed in through the window. She was in a room with walls of white stone, walls she recognised – the Houses of Healing in Gondor.

In a turbulent rush, the memories of the battle returned to her, and she retched. The spasm caused a surge of blinding pain from her torso and she cried out. Someone in the chair beside her bed jerked to life.

"Tíniel!" exclaimed a voice, and he turned and quickly lit a candle.

"Aragorn," she breathed, her voice cracked and hoarse. The candlelight illuminated a face that was more lined than she remembered, eyes that had dark, bruise-like shadows beneath them, and brows that seemed permanently creased with worry.

"You are finally showing your age," she whispered with an effort, and in an instant the worry was replaced with relief.

"I know no one but you who would come back from the very door to the hall of the dead and make a joke," he said, lifting a cup of water to her lips and helping her tilt her head to drink some. "You're really alright?"

She grunted in pain from the movement. "Everything hurts."

"It's bound to if you challenge a Nazgul to a duel."

She grimaced, and found that her face hurt too. "I wasn't planning on surviving it."

Aragorn's face softened and he took one of her hands in both of his. They were warm, rough, familiar. "You very nearly didn't," he said softly.

"You saved me, didn't you?" she asked. "I could hear you speaking to me. I don't know what you said, but I knew it was you."

Conflict flashed across his face, and he shrugged. "Yes, I saved you. I didn't really have a choice."

She frowned and waited for him to elaborate. He sighed and looked down.

"After the battle, you were cold as ice," he said. "You and Éowyn both. I felt for your heartbeat and could find none. I listened for your breath and heard nothing." He swallowed thickly. "You do not know the despair that gripped me, Tíniel. I thought you were dead."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. He gave a half laugh.

"I was so empty. I have lost my father, my mother, brothers in arms, friends, family… none compare to what I felt when I thought I had lost you."

She didn't know why, but tears came to her eyes. Her arms felt too weak to reach up and brush them away. Aragorn looked back up and smiled at her.

"Yes, I saved you," he said. "And thereby I saved myself. There was no life for me without you. When you were gone, it was simply what had to be done. But when I realised that I had a chance at healing you… there was light again. There was hope."

A tear trickled from the corner of one of her eyes. "When I was on the battlefield, fighting _him_ , and I heard you call my name," she rasped. "When I knew you had come back, I…"

It was all growing too much, and she shut her eyes and breathed unsteadily. She felt him squeeze her hand.

"Did you mean what you said in that doom dream?" she whispered.

"I did," he replied gently. "I really, truly did."

"Will you say it again?"

He pressed a kiss to her palm, and it warmed her whole arm. "I love you, Tíniel. I love you endlessly."

* * *

 **Well, they're reunited at last. I have no apology to offer for the death scare last week – but you didn't really think the story was over, did you? Even in the book they truly thought that Éowyn was dead until Imrahil decided to check if she was breathing (not sure why this wasn't the first step, but okay).**

 **My love and thanks to those who have followed, favourited and especially reviewed. Since its inception, fiction has been a way for people to escape reality. So especially in a time like this, I hope you enjoy.**

 **My tips for staying healthy during the virus: read, wash your hands, and review.**

 **S**


	38. Recovery

**38 – RECOVERY**

* * *

She didn't know how or when she fell asleep, but when she woke, it was late in the afternoon. Aragorn had left, but he'd been replaced by Tcharum, who stood by the window, his arms behind his back.

The moment she shifted in the bed he spun and practically leapt to her side.

"Tchakhura," he said, his hands fluttering over her as though he was afraid to touch her. "You're awake…"

"I certainly am," she grimaced. There was a sharp, persistent pain in her back that wouldn't let up.

"Here," Tcharum said, dropping some kind of cloudy liquid into a cup of water. "Drink this, and it will help. Aragorn showed me how to make it."

She lifted her arm painfully to hold it, and swallowed it down as quickly as she was able. "Where is he?" she asked.

"Aragorn?" Tcharum said, taking the cup back. "He will have gone to speak with some great lords, or to heal someone else. The one thing that I know he is _not_ doing is sleeping."

"But he looked exhausted last night," Tíniel muttered to herself. She sighed and shook her head. "You two seem to be becoming better friends."

"He has spent most of his time by your side over the past few days," Tcharum said, sitting in the chair by her bed, "and so have I."

Tíniel almost sat up in shock, but the pain forced her back down. " _Days?"_

He smiled, brushing hair out of her face. "You almost died, sister. Don't be hard on yourself."

"The _bamyë_?"

"Is in the lower circles of the city," he said placatingly. "We've been resting, tending to our wounded, helping to restore some of the damage done. We are fine."

She sagged back into the pillow. "Thank you."

"It was only my duty," he said. "And that reminds me…"

From under his tunic, he produced her _hamarakhi_. "I took this from you when I thought you were dead," he said. "And now you can take it back, Tchakhura Khondyë."

She smiled and allowed him to gently put it around her neck. "I'd like my tunic back too," she said. "I don't know what this flimsy white thing is."

"Your tunic is more holes than tunic, I'm afraid," Tcharum said. "We had to cut it off you to get to your wounds. We can get you another, perhaps for when you're not so bandaged up."

Tíniel winced. "Does that mean I was naked?"

Tcharum very purposefully looked elsewhere. "Maybe…"

"Brother!"

"Alright! Yes, you were. But there was so much blood that you were practically clothed in it."

She turned into the pillow and groaned. "Aragorn was here, wasn't he?"

He sighed. "It was he who healed you,' Tcharum said. "Relax, sister. _Looking_ at you was the last thing on anyone's mind."

"So there were others here too?!"

"Tchakhura! For the love of the _hamariag_ , shut up about it!"

"True," she sighed. "Sorry. I'll be a better patient."

"You never were very good at being wounded, were you?" Tcharum grinned. "Remember when we were fourteen, and you broke your ankle?"

"Only too well," she muttered. "Don't remind me."

"Well, can I get you anything else then?" he asked.

"Food?" she suggested eagerly, trying to make it sound like she wasn't starving, but Tcharum sprang to his feet guiltily.

"Of course," he said. "You must be famished! I'll be back as soon as I can!"

He opened the door, then hesitated and looked back. "Do you mind if I send someone in?" he asked. "I know you're tired and in pain, but they've been waiting for a long while…"

Tíniel frowned. "Who has?"

Tcharum stuck his head outside the door, and she could hear him speaking in Westron. "She is waking!"

There were a number of exclamations, and he hushed them.

"Do not touch! Be… be…" he paused, and then said "gentle," in Khandi. Then he switched back to the Common Tongue. "You can go, one by one."

He turned back into the room to look at her. "I'll be back soon, alright?" he said in anxious Khandi.

She nodded, burning with curiosity to see who had waited for her to wake. He left the room, and was replaced by a tall, dark haired man with his arm in a sling.

"Faramir," Tíniel said, her eyes suddenly prickling with tears of joy. "You survived! You are alive!"

He grinned from ear to ear. "You're one to talk," he said. "How are you?"

She smiled back. "Well enough. I am here only thanks to Aragorn, or so I've heard."

"And I am here thanks to you and your cure," he replied, coming to sit beside her. His joviality slipped away. "We did not part well, Tíniel."

Her smile faded. "No, we didn't."

"And it was on my part," he continued. He cleared his throat. "Never had I regretted words so much as when I was sitting outside this room, waiting to be told that you'd died."

She reached over and grabbed his hand. "I had betrayed you," she said earnestly. "The words were harsh, yes, but they were merited."

Faramir sighed and met her eyes. "We were so close before this war. But now nothing will ever be the same."

She smiled. "Except for the fact that I love you," she said. He looked up, and his eyes softened.

"I love you too," he replied. "Will you be my sister again?"

"As long as I live and breathe. You can't change blood."

There was a knock at the door, followed by Pippin's voice. "Hurry up, Faramir! You're keeping her all to yourself!"

"Well then, before I go," Faramir said, smiling wryly and taking something from his pocket. "This is yours."

He put it in Tíniel's palm, and she caught her breath. "The _hamarakhi_ of Gondor," she said. "Faramir, are you sure?"

"If anyone is the leader here, it is you," he replied. "I have heard tales of how you led the men on that charge onto the battlefield. Not to mention the stories – and at least two songs so far – about how you faced down the Witch-King of Angmar to buy time for Rohan. You are a truer leader of Rohan than my father ever was. Galadriel was wise when she gave that to you. Wear it."

She gingerly reached up and looped it around her neck so that it joined the other _hamarakhi_ on her chest. "The first Khondyë to wear two," she said.

He squeezed her hand and stood up. "Time for me to go, I think," he said. "I'll be back when the line of visitors outside your door doesn't stretch halfway to Lebennin."

He opened the door and left, and Petakh and Mugura stepped in.

"Khondyë," Petakh whispered, aghast. "You look terrible."

"To be expected, I suppose," she grinned in reply. "I am glad to see you both made it through."

"Of course we did," Petakh said, "up in the Healing rooms where you had us stationed. I tell you, I would much rather have been fighting down on the ground than doing the things I had to do."

"Me too, Khondyë," Mugura said, looking slightly queasy. "Some of the things I saw…"

"You did your duties, just like the rest of the _bamyë_ ," Tíniel said. "I am proud."

"I am glad you're alive, Tchakhura," Petakh said, smiling. "You cannot know how afraid we all were for you, nor how the _bamyë_ grieved when we thought you dead."

"Not just the Maruvikh," Mugura said eagerly. "The Northmen too. They were telling the stories of how you led the charge into battle, and then faced down a monster made of darkness. They said you didn't even tremble when he looked at you, though any other would have swooned."

"They exaggerate, I am sure," she said. "But like I said, we were all simply doing our duties."

"Oh, here – Tcharum gave us food to give to you," Petakh said, handing Tíniel a plate that sported two pieces of bread smothered in butter. "He said he's sorry, he couldn't find any Khandi food. And also he said to remind you that you should eat slowly."

Tíniel nodded and took an enormous bite of one of the pieces of bread. Petakh rolled her eyes.

"I haven't eaten for days," she reasoned with her mouth full.

"We cannot stay long," Petakh grinned. "We have been helping the Healers, especially as they tend to our own. We should go back."

"You'll be alright without us though, Khondyë," Mugura added. "That Northman, Aragorn, will see to it."

Petakh elbowed him in the ribs and he grunted. "Come on, big-mouth," she said. They stood, and Tíniel smiled through another mouthful of bread.

"You're showing, Petakh," she said.

The other woman looked down and smiled, her hands going to cover her now pregnant belly. "I know," she said. "Vagura won't stop boasting to the other men."

"He survived the battle too?"

"Yes. We lost many, but me and my family are safe," Petakh replied. "But we should go. There are others who wish to see you. _Khuma._ "

They were barely gone when Merry and Pippin burst in, followed by Gimli and Legolas.

"Tíniel!" Pippin cried crossly, hurrying to her side. "You took an _age_ to wake up! For a day or two we didn't think you would, either. But Strider – I mean, Aragorn – has been by your side the whole time, and not sleeping a wink."

"You look a fright," Merry said, appalled.

"Well of course she does, lad, she just fought the king of the ghosts and won," Gimli scolded.

"I don't think I can say I won," Tíniel laughed.

"Well, which one of you wound up dead?" Legolas said, a shadow of a smirk on his face.

"What was it like, fighting a Nazgul?" Pippin breathed, his eyes wide. "Were you afraid?"

"Not really," she said. "I just thought I was going to die."

"Your brother is a good sort," Merry piped up. "None of us much liked him at first, but then his Westron started improving, and we liked him a good deal more."

"Merry and I taught him how to say _hobbit_ , and _Shire_ ," Pippin said. "Oh, and also _ale_ and _Longbottom Leaf_."

Tíniel couldn't help but roll her eyes. "If I were well enough, I'd have both of your hides for giving him grief," she said.

"I'll do it for you if you like, princess," Gimli said, causing great alarm on Merry and Pippin's faces. "How do you feel?"

She hesitated. "I'd say I've felt worse," she said, "but I haven't."

"At least you are alive," Legolas said, his eyes trained on hers like he was trying to memorise them. "Aragorn worked tirelessly for it to be so."

"So everyone tells me," she said. She lowered her voice. "Is he… alright?"

Legolas shrugged. "He hasn't slept," he said. "Even more than usual. I feared for him, but I think he will be better now you are awake."

"Much will be better now we know you are well," Gimli said. "You have quite the following outside, Tíniel."

As if to emphasise his words, there was a hammering at the door and a muffled voice shouting "Our turn!" in a strangely familiar accent.

Pippin looked disappointed, and Tíniel reached out with an effort and touched his cheek.

"You can come back, you know," she said. "I daresay I'll need the company."

"We shall meet again soon enough, as you say," Legolas said, smiling ever so slightly. "Get some rest, Tíniel. You will never be forgiven if you do not."

" _I'll_ say," Gimli agreed, and they retreated.

There were some muffled mutterings from beyond the door, and then it was pushed open again, and Tíniel's jaw dropped.

"Harûk? Mahaya?" she gasped.

"She lives!" Harûk crowed. "Though you do look half dead."

"Hardly any way to greet an old friend," Mahaya said disapprovingly.

"I wouldn't expect anything different," Tíniel sputtered, her mouth still open in shock. "By the stars, I never expected to see you lot again. And Mahaya – I thought you were dead!"

Mahaya frowned. "What?"

"A Gondorian told me when I first arrived here," she said. "He said you had died of sickness in the prison at the City of Corsairs, but that the rest of you had escaped."

"Aha!" Harûk laughed. "That was the trick, you see. Mahaya _was_ ill, if you remember."

"I do," she said. "You were wounded, Mahaya, and it was infected. You kept shivering."

"Well it was lucky for the rest of them," Mahaya replied.

"Remuil concocted the most ridiculous plan," Harûk went on. "He knew the cell door wouldn't be opened until the day they took us out to hang. So he had us all shouting that one of us had died. The guards knew Mahaya had been sick, so four of them came to get the body. And the moment they unlocked the door, we were out like a herd of cattle."

"They practically trampled the men," Mahaya said, shaking his head. "They stood little chance."

"I got a sword to the hand," Harûk said proudly, holding up his left hand. Half of his first finger was missing, and there was a thick scar across his palm.

"So that's how you escaped," Tíniel said admiringly. "It sounds just like Remuil. Is he here too?"

"The whole crew of the _Haedannen_ came… except for Remuil," Mahaya said reluctantly. "It's not that he didn't want to see you. He just… doesn't like the land much."

"Everyone came?" she asked, frowning. "But how? Why?"

"We sailed up the Anduin," Harûk said.

"And we came for you," Mahaya added.

"For me?" she asked, still bewildered. "I don't understand."

"Well for a long time after you were taken by the Northmen, we thought you were dead, gone forever," Harûk said. "It was a cheering thought." She shot him a glare.

"He's lying of course," Mahaya said. "Harûk was devastated, and Remuil blamed himself for losing you. For a long time, he wouldn't say anything. He'd stare East a lot too, and everyone knew he was thinking of you. We went to the City of Corsairs a lot more often, in case you'd been able to escape and come back to find us."

"But years passed, and we gave you up for lost," Harûk said. "Until recently. We were in the City, and some drunkard from Gondor was babbling about the Queen of the East. We didn't listen at first, but the more he talked, the more it sounded like you."

"He described this woman, a _variagura_ from Khand who came from Gondor but fought with a curved sword," Mahaya went on. "She spoke the Common Tongue, which had never been spoken by a Khandi before, and had the strength of a man and the speed of a snake. She led a Khandi tribe into the West to fight against the Enemy."

"Remuil figured it out first," Haruk said. "But it did made sense. If there was one person in this world annoying enough to become renowned across the land for being ridiculous, it would be you."

"Thanks," Tíniel said dryly.

"Anyway, for a short time Remuil debated going East to find and help you," Mahaya said. "He still felt guilty for failing you when we were captured, and he felt certain the Queen of the East was you."

"He had this whole thing about 'fighting the darkness,' too," Harûk said. "The crew was keen and willing to follow him, but in the end, he changed his mind. We went, and where he is now, I haven't the foggiest idea."

"He was afraid," Mahaya said quietly. "Every time he mentioned going East, his eyes would darken, and he would look far away. He said there was too much waiting for him if he went."

"He kept saying 'They will find me,'" Harûk said, putting on what Tíniel assumed was an imitation of Remuil. "'They will find me, and the curse will strike again.' And who knows what _that_ means. But you know the rule of the _Haedannen_. Don't ask, don't tell."

"He is an Elf," Tíniel said. The two men frowned.

"A what?" Mahaya said.

"An Elf," she repeated. "They're like men, but they live forever unless they are felled by sword or sickness. Have you met Legolas?"

"The pretty boy who was waiting to see you?" Harûk asked, and she nodded.

"He is an Elf as well. A prince too. Most of them live up North, but Remuil… well, we were all hiding from something."

They were both staring at her, mouths agape.

"Men who live _forever_?" Mahaya asked.

"I know it sounds like a mother's tale," she said, "but it's true."

"How do you know that Remuil was one, then?" Harûk asked.

"Well, he just seems _different_ , don't you think?" she asked. They hummed in agreement, and she went on. "Even so, he felt older even than most Elves. Some of them have a strange sort of youthfulness about them, but Remuil didn't. He seemed older, and sadder."

"I'll take your word for it," Harûk said. "Well, in any case, it's good to see you again. Perhaps when this is all over you can come back to us on the _Haedannen_."

She smiled wryly. "Somehow I don't think that's possible," she said. "Though the thought is sweet."

"What keeps you?" Mahaya asked.

"My tribe," she said. "I am their leader now, and I have a duty to them. I have friends in Gondor too now, and in the North as well." She shook her head. "But it isn't just that. The truth is, the _Haedannen_ was somewhere for me to hide, but now… I have nothing to hide from anymore."

"Not to mention the fact that you have a man now, hm?" Harûk said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Mahaya smacked him on the shoulder. "The king of subtlety as usual," he scolded. "We've only just found the poor girl, let her alone for five minutes."

"Unlikely. I've let her alone for five _years_ ," Harûk said. Then he sobered. "I've nobody else to bother anyway."

Mahaya put his arm around Harûk's shoulders and they were silent for a second.

"What happened?" Tíniel asked quietly.

"We lost Grimbold," Mahaya said. "And six others."

"I am sorry," she said, guilt stabbing at her. "You did this for me."

"We did it of our own free will," Harûk said firmly. "We all knew the risk and we took it anyway. It is us who should be sorry for letting you be taken all those years ago."

"It is something I don't regret," she said. "So let us leave it in the past."

At that moment, the door opened quietly, and Aragorn stepped inside. The dying sunlight cast long shadows on his face that made him look almost deathly in his fatigue.

"I think that's our cue, Harûk," Mahaya said, standing.

"Don't leave on my account," Aragorn said. "I just wanted to see if all was well."

"No, no, we'll leave you two together," Harûk said, winking at Tíniel. She rolled her eyes.

"We'll be here," Mahaya assured her. "Just outside."

"Just scream and we'll come to your aid!" Harûk added. "But we'll be back soon anyway!"

The door finally swung shut behind them, and there was a moment of silence. Aragorn stood there unmoving for a few seconds, simply staring at the door. Tíniel watched him with concern.

"Aragorn," she said at last, and his head jerked up.

"Sorry," he said. "I was thinking."

"I know."

He came and sat beside her bed with a sigh, rubbing his hand over his face. "I'm tired, that's all."

She shook her head. "You're not tired, Aragorn. You're exhausted. Have you even slept since the battle?"

He dropped his eyes and said nothing, and she sighed. "Exactly. You need to _stop_ for a moment, do you understand me?"

"I would like to, believe me," he said. "But there is too much to be done."

"I lose count of how many times I have told you to rest," she scolded him. "But I have never seen you this bad."

He shook his head. "How is the pain?" he asked, changing the subject.

She narrowed her eyes, but answered the question anyway. "It is better already," she said. "My back hurts the most, and my legs feel numb."

Aragorn's face grew suddenly grave. "Can you… move your legs?" he asked, his voice strained.

She tried it, and her right leg twitched. A wave of pain swept through her, and she cried out through gritted teeth. It took at least a minute for it to subside, and when she came to, she found herself clinging to Aragorn's arm with all her strength. He was kneeling beside the bed, stroking her hair.

"It's alright," he whispered. "It's alright. I'm here." She couldn't help it; she began to cry, and he pressed his forehead to hers. "I'm here."

"I was trying to be brave when they were all coming in to see me," she gasped through her tears. "But it hurts so much, and I'm just so – so –"

"Oh, my love," he said gently. "I know."

"I was happy to see them. I was, but – but the battle, and, and…"

"You endured more than any man should," he whispered. "You are allowed to be weak."

She drew in a shuddering breath, trying to ignore the pain in her obviously broken ribs. "What's wrong with me?"

"Hm?"

"How have I been hurt?"

He drew back a little, but left his arm in her grip. He hesitated for a moment, but then sighed, seeming to sense the uselessness of withholding the information.

"You're covered in open wounds, from the spikes on his mace," he said, and she felt him shudder a little. "Your right arm is broken, as are several of your ribs. You're covered in some of the most impressive bruises I've ever seen. And your back…" he shook his head. "I don't know what happened to it. It twisted somehow, from the final blow he dealt you. I was afraid it was broken, but if you can move your legs, even a little…"

"Not without pain," she whispered, her face contorting at the memory. "Not without terrible pain."

"Still, there is hope," he said, putting his hand up to her face. "It was you who used to tell me that all the time."

"Then I'll have to believe it," she said, smiling a little. "Will you stay tonight, Aragorn?"

"If you wish it," he replied, smiling down at her.

"Alright. Move me over," she ordered.

He frowned. "What?"

"Move me to the side of the bed, so there is room for you."

"Tíniel, no."

She gave a small, painful shrug. "Do it, or I'll scream and Mahaya and Harûk will do it for me."

Aragorn clenched his jaw, then shook his head. "Fine," he bit out. "I'll do it."

With great care, he lifted her and gently let her down on the other side of the bed. Then he sat on the side that was now free.

"No," she said, once the pain faded enough for her to talk. "Take your shoes off first. You're not leaving halfway through the night."

He smirked. "And if I say no?"

"I'll scream, and I don't doubt that they will come. I have powerful friends, Aragorn. Pirates are not to be trifled with."

He shook his head and took off his boots, placing them by the bed stand. "Your loss if my feet smell," he said.

She shrugged. "I've grown used to it, I'm afraid," she said.

He laughed and lay down beside her. "You know I can't stay," he said.

She looked sideways at him. "You need to sleep, Aragorn."

He smiled. "I've actually tried, you know," he said. "But every time I shut my eyes, I see things."

"What things?"

"The battle at Helm's Deep, for one. Gandalf falling into Moria, though that wound is closed. I see the Paths of the Dead, Boromir with arrows in his chest, a pile of burning orcs outside of Fangorn Forest. But mostly I see you, standing before the Nazgul, waiting to die."

She reached over with her left arm and brushed a piece of hair out of his face. "Will you try again? For my sake?"

He held her gaze steadily. "You know I can't."

"For me?"

He barely hesitated. "Alright."

They lay there in silence together, watching each other, but after a while, Aragorn's eyes began drifting shut.

"Just go to sleep," she whispered. "I'm with you."

"I know," he murmured. Moments later, his breathing deepened, and his eyes stayed shut. Tíniel smiled slightly and shut her own eyes. The pain was there, yes, but it wasn't bad. And despite it, she too began drifting away.

The next morning, she woke when the sun was already high. The pain had lessened still more, but everything still hurt, and she turned her head uncomfortably. She blinked in surprise when she came face to face with Aragorn.

He was still fast asleep, breathing deeply and evenly. She couldn't stop a smile ghosting across her face. No, the war had not yet been won. But this felt like a small victory.

"I love you," she whispered. He sighed, but he didn't wake. Her smile widened.

* * *

 **Thank you enormously for your reviews! And hi to the new readers... every update I get one or two more binge-readers and it makes me very happy.**

 **The weather is just gorgeous where I am at the moment. Autumn is the best time of year, change my mind. I hope the story provides a little bit of distraction from the real world – just because you're in isolation doesn't mean you're alone!**

 **Sending love and excessive social distancing,**

 **S**


	39. The Last Debate

**39 – THE LAST DEBATE**

* * *

On the third day of her recovery, Tíniel made it out of the bed. She tried to move her legs to walk, but the agony was unbearable, and they decided sitting would be enough of a first step. Aragorn carried her the rest of the way to the chair.

He was usually gone during the day, planning the defence of the city and tending to those who were beyond the reach of the other Healers. Tíniel was occupied by the rest of her visitors, who would come in to talk and ask after her recovery.

But in the evenings, he'd return to her, and they'd talk or sit in silence. He shared her bed every night after he realised it helped him sleep. People noticed, Tíniel knew, but nobody spoke out.

Sitting properly upright felt like an achievement, though it was only the smallest of changes. In a rare moment alone, Tíniel closed her eyes and let the warm spring breeze brush over her face. What a time to feel peaceful in, she thought.

A knock at the door snapped her from her reverie, and she looked over to see Éowyn, dressed all in white as usual, with her hair hanging loose and one arm in a sling. A grin spread across her face.

"Hello," Éowyn said cautiously. "How are you?"

"All the better for seeing you," Tíniel replied. "Come in!"

Relief washed over Éowyn's face, and she limped gingerly into the small room. "My, but it's good to see you again," she said. "I was so worried… but I was told not to visit because I was too weak. Today is the first day that I'm really up and about."

"You don't look too broken at all," Tíniel said, and the other woman laughed.

"We can hope so. I think it was you who bore the brunt of the damage."

"Aragorn sewed me up well enough," she said, and her face fell a little. "Though I am yet to even stand without help."

"It will come," Éowyn said earnestly, pulling the other chair over to sit beside her at the window. "Don't despair, Tíniel. You mustn't! You need only have patience."

"Thank goodness for my friends, then," Tíniel said, looking back out at the sky. "Thank goodness for you, and Ingold and Legolas and the hobbits, and Aragorn too…"

Éowyn looked down, and she realised what she'd said. "I am sorry, Éowyn, I didn't mean –"

"No, do not worry yourself on my account." Éowyn looked back up and smiled. "I know I thought myself in love before, but since then, he and I have come to some kind of understanding that it cannot be so."

Tíniel watched her with concern. "I am sorry…"

"Don't be," Éowyn replied breezily. "Besides, even in these past few days…" she paused and shook her head. "I hesitate to tell you, for he too is a man close to your heart. But I long for advice."

"Who is it, then?" Tíniel asked, curiosity eating her up.

"Faramir, the Steward's son," Éowyn confessed, blushing deeply. "He has been confined in the Houses as well."

Tíniel felt the grin creep back onto her face. "Faramir?"

"He's been _watching_ me," Éowyn said in agitation, lowering her voice although there was no one else in the room. "I don't think he realises that I know, but I do."

"That sounds like Faramir," Tíniel said. "About as subtle as a stone through a window."

"But there is something in his eyes when he's looking at me," Éowyn went on, her voice becoming slightly dreamy. "Something I've never seen in any man's eyes before. It's like he sees me, really sees me. And I don't think I have ever been _seen_ like that before."

Tíniel's smile widened. "Oh, Éowyn, you silly girl. This makes me happier than you could know."

She looked up anxiously. "Really?"

"Faramir has been unhappy for a long while now. He has endured loss, pain and grief. To know that he has a chance of finding peace with you… of course it makes me happy. And as for you – you could find no better man to love than Faramir of Minas Tirith."

"I dare not hope too much," Éowyn said, but she was smiling now. "It has only led to sadness before."

"Hope all you like," Tíniel replied. "It's all we have in times like these."

"I can't," she said, turning anguished again. "He seems so serious and wise, and I am practically still a girl! I spend my time sparring and riding and listening to war stories… I'm the least suitable match for someone like him!"

"Wise? Serious?" Tíniel asked incredulously. "Éowyn, I used to struggle to make Faramir have a serious conversation. He used to fill Boromir's saddlebags with rocks every time he was riding somewhere. Once when I asked him to give me directions to the cobbler's, he sent me to a whorehouse instead. Sure, he's sick now, but the real Faramir is lively and funny and kind, and shockingly immature. You're perfect for each other."

Éowyn frowned at the backhanded compliment, but Tíniel could see her hidden smile. "I'm glad you came to Rohan all those years ago," she said fondly. Suddenly, there was another knock at the door, and Legolas came in. Éowyn got to her feet.

"My lord," she said, inclining her head. "I was just leaving."

"Do not leave on my account," Legolas said, but she shook her head.

"The Healers will have my hide if I stay," she said, a twinkle in her eye. "It's back to bed with me! Until we meet again."

Tíniel adjusted herself gingerly on the bed, and took a drink from the flask beside it. watching Legolas while she did. He paced to the window and looked out, but after a moment, his fists clenched, and he went to the chair and sat. Then he quickly stood again.

Tíniel put the flask back on the bedside table, beginning to feel worried. "Why did you come to see me, Legolas?"

He looked up slowly and smiled his usual smile, but she could see something else beneath it too. "Because you are my friend, princess."

"Legolas."

His eyes flicked downwards. "Need I have a reason?"

"Legolas, what is wrong?"

He looked up again. Tíniel had been with him through battles, had grieved with him and laughed with him, but she had never seen such anguish as she saw written on his face then.

"After the Paths of the Dead," he said quietly, "We travelled to Pelargir. You know it?"

"Yes, on the Anduin," she said.

"It is where we intercepted the black fleet, with the army of the dead behind us."

"Aragorn said none of the Grey Company even had to raise a blade."

A corner of his mouth twitched upward. "It is true. Fighting ghosts are something I never wish to see again, though."

There was silence for a moment, and she waited patiently for him to continue.

"I saw gulls," he said at last, his voice trembling barely noticeably. "Have you ever seen a gull, Tíniel?"

"I lived at sea for many months," she answered cautiously, her worry growing. "I saw many."

"What strange birds, to travel so far inland, so far from their home," he said, with a joyless smile. "And now I must leave."

Tíniel sat there, confused and at a loss for what to say. She took his hand in hers. "Leave? Leave this room? Or leave Minas Tirith?"

"Leave Middle-earth," he replied in a rush, looking down at their joined hands.

Tíniel drew in a sharp breath, finally understanding. "The sea-longing," she said. "It has caught you."

"I cannot tell you how it feels," he whispered, his voice more uneven than she'd ever heard it before. "Any peace I ever had is gone, gone far away. Every waking moment is restless agony, and every time I try to sleep, I dream…"

He put his head down and hid his face in the bedsheets. Tíniel looked down at him pityingly, almost certain that there could be nothing that she could say that would make it better.

"All I know is that I shall never be happy here again," he said, his voice slightly muffled.

"You might," she countered weakly. "The feeling is new for you, perhaps it will fade after a while…"

"No. It gets stronger by the day," he said miserably, looking up. "It is like a dagger in my side that I know will stay until I have left. It is like my soul is being held over a fire, but the flames will not be quenched until I go. And every moment that I choose to stay, the torture goes on…" He shook his head. "It is a longing – nay, a _yearning_ that is without end. I wish even to _see_ the ocean, just to taste the salt on the air… but then it will become unbearable."

Tíniel frowned suddenly. "Legolas, do you remember on the Anduin when I asked you about Remuil, the Elf I had met long ago?"

He blinked. "I do."

"He was the captain of the _Haedannen_. He lived on the sea, and he once spoke to me of feeling drawn to it… but how did he withstand it? Why did he not simply sail into the West?"

"I cannot imagine why he would not go," he said quietly. "To be at sea and know you are so close… it would be purest agony."

"Legolas, I am so sorry," she said sincerely. "I can't imagine what you must feel."

"And I am sorry for laying my burden on you," he said, tightening his grip on her hand slightly. "Aragorn has enough on his shoulders. And Gimli… he would not understand. It fell to you, princess."

"Well," she said, smiling faintly. "My ears are open whenever you need them. And Legolas – Middle-earth will always be brighter when you are in it."

A shadow of his old serenity passed over his face. "And I shall mourn to leave you behind, one day," he said, but then he shook his head. "But perhaps it will not come to that. The worst of this war is yet to come, I fear. I heard there is to be a council of the captains today."

Tíniel sat up straight, ignoring the spike of pain in her back. "What?"

"A council of the captains," he repeated, "to determine our next move."

"But _I_ am a captain of my army," she said angrily. "Why was I not told?"

"Oh dear," Legolas said, releasing her hand and getting to his feet. He looked distinctly uneasy, and Tíniel soon discovered why. There was a loud knock at the door, and an angry looking Aragorn stormed in, followed by a chuckling Gandalf.

"Hello," said Legolas awkwardly. "I was just leaving. Goodbye."

Aragorn's scowl deepened. "What have you done, Legolas?"

"There was a council of captains and you failed to tell me?" Tíniel asked Aragorn, her voice dangerously calm.

"The council has not yet passed," Gandalf said without batting an eyelid. "But it shall, and very soon!"

"Then I shall go," Tíniel said with satisfaction, sinking back into the pillows.

"I think _I_ will go," Legolas muttered uncomfortably. Aragorn shot him a baleful look and turned to Tíniel.

"You are not going, Tíniel," Aragorn snapped. "You can barely stand, let alone walk. You're healing, and to sit through hours of useless talk about what we ought to do will only weaken you."

"Useless talk?" she repeated incredulously.

"The leader of the Maruvikh tribe should be present at a discussion of its future," Gandalf countered. "The longer we put off making this decision, the longer –"

"There are others who can lead the tribe on her behalf," Aragorn bit off. "I will not have days of recovery ruined by a rash decision!"

"I think I had better leave," Legolas announced, but no one listened.

"She is a grown woman, and she can decide for herself," Gandalf said sharply.

"You're only saying that because you know she'll want to go!" Aragorn snapped.

Tíniel cleared her throat delicately, effectively silencing both of them. They looked up at her expectantly, and she sat up as straight as she could manage.

"I have never yet been ordered about by a Northman, and I don't intend to start today," she said shortly. "I will be present at the council."

Gandalf leaned back in satisfaction, and Aragorn went to protest, but she held up a hand to silence them.

"However, I cannot walk to the chambers, and I don't wish to be carried like a child. What do you propose?"

"A wheeling-chair?" Gandalf suggested. "Like a wheelbarrow, but with a chair where the barrow goes. You can be pushed about."

She shrugged reluctantly. "I shall have to farewell my dignity, but if it gets me there, it will have to do."

"Is the argument over?" Legolas asked in confusion.

"I do not approve of this, Tíniel," Aragorn protested. "You might hurt yourself further, push yourself more than you should. This is _dangerous_."

"Then it is well that I don't require your approval," Tíniel answered sharply. "Does my brother know of the council?"

"Yes, and the soldier named Petakh," Gandalf said.

"Good. And what of Denethor? Is he… in his right mind?"

There was an awful silence, and the three of them shifted uncomfortably. "I haven't said anything to you yet," Aragorn began. "I didn't wish to discuss… such things."

Tíniel's eyes widened. "He is dead?"

"He tried to burn himself, and Faramir, alive," Aragorn said quietly. "Gandalf and Beregond, a soldier of Minas Tirith, were able to save Faramir. But they were too late for Denethor."

"He burned to death, clutching the broken white rod of the Stewards in his hands," Gandalf said. "Taken by his own madness."

"Poor Faramir," she whispered. She couldn't believe that Denethor was gone, and for a moment she wasn't sure if she was happy or sad. Then she remembered how, years ago, he'd imprisoned her to use as a bargaining chip against Khand, and she couldn't muster too much sorrow.

"Perhaps Denethor will be the lucky one soon enough," Gandalf said. "This is far from over, and we may soon find ourselves in a worse fate. Now – if I find you a chair, Tíniel, will you come?"

"I will," she said, and he turned and left briskly, followed by a relieved Legolas. Aragorn crouched beside her.

"You don't have to do this," he said intently. "You're hurt, in pain. I know you think it is your duty, but you don't have to do it."

She smiled and put her hand on his head. "The Enemy isn't going to wait for me to get better," she said. "So neither will I."

He stared up at her searchingly. "I wish you weren't like this," he said. "But it's what I love most about you."

Her smile faded, and her hand slipped down to rest on his shoulder. "This won't last, you know," she said quietly.

His brows creased. "What do you mean?"

"If we were living in peace, we could never be together."

"Yes, we could," he said sharply. "We _could_."

'If we win this war, Aragorn, you will be King, and I will be Khondyë. There is no way that this could continue. And if we lose… well. We'll be dead."

He closed his eyes briefly, as though he was in pain, and then he opened them again to look directly up at her. "Then let us be together until we win, or we are dead."

She smiled sadly. "I won't complain."

He stood and leaned down to kiss her firmly on the lips. She returned it, using her good arm to pull him closer. There was a knock at the door, and Aragorn pulled back quickly. He stared at her for a moment, breathing deeply, but then turned and opened the door.

"Gandalf," he said. "I've never known you to be so polite as to knock and wait."

"I assure you, my friend," Gandalf said with a faintly disgusted air, "it was more to do with preserving my eyesight than civility. I didn't want to walk in on _that._ " He entered the room, pushing before him a wooden chair with two wagon wheels attached either side.

"A little rough, my dear, but it was the best I could do with such short notice," he said, stopping it just before Tíniel.

"You were gone only a minute or two," she said, frowning.

He shrugged, the ever-present twinkle in his eye. "As I have said many a time, wizards are never late. Now, shall we get you into the chair?"

"I shall do it," said Aragorn, stepping forward again. Gandalf simply raised an eyebrow and allowed him to lift Tíniel gently from one chair onto the other.

"Comfortable?" he asked her.

"I think that would be too much to ask," she said, grimacing a little. "But it will do. Let us go, before we're late."

* * *

She felt ridiculous as they pushed her up to the citadel. People stared as she went past, the Khandi saluting, the Gondorians bowing with their hands on their hearts and the Rohirrim dipping their heads. Tíniel held her head high, but felt herself flushing.

"This is new," she muttered so Aragorn and Gandalf could hear her. "My own people, I can understand, but the others…"

"You were quite busy during the battle," Gandalf said, sounding as though he was trying not to laugh. "You killed four hundred orcs with your own sword, you see. They fled before you. The witch-king himself trembled beneath your gaze!"

Tíniel pursed her lips. "That is untrue."

"Rumours spread quickly, Queen of the East," the wizard replied, leading the way up to the doors of the throne room. "And no legend has ever done all of what they were said to have done."

"Well in Khand, we do not tell lies," she said curtly, and they wheeled her inside.

Imrahil, Éomer and Faramir were already there, waiting for them. Imrahil smiled down at her widely.

"My lady Tíniel!" he said warmly. "You are looking distinctly less dead than when I last laid eyes on you."

She couldn't help but return the smile wryly. "I'm glad you made it through, Imrahil. And you too, Éomer. The reinforcements were much appreciated."

"Had to repay you for Helm's Deep," he grinned. "And I hear that you and my sister took down a Nazgul?"

"You'd best not believe everything you hear," she warned. "For less than half of it is true."

"Well I've seen you and Éowyn duelling," he replied, "and the ferocity would strike fear in the very heart of the Captain of Mordor."

"If he even had a heart," Faramir said darkly. He looked her up and down and grinned widely despite the dark shadows beneath his eyes. "Why, you look like an elegant sack of potatoes being wheeled about like this, little sister!"

She rolled her eyes. "And there goes the last of my dignity."

The great doors opened again to admit Halbarad, Elrohir and Elladan, and they made their way up to the others.

"I hope we have not delayed you," said the one she thought was Elladan.

"Not at all," Aragorn said. "But you three are the last, so we may begin."

"Then let us begin!" Gandalf said. "We won a great but costly victory on the fields of the Pelennor. What now?"

"Like you said, it was costly," Aragorn said, his demeanour switching immediately into that of Aragorn the Commander. Tíniel suppressed a smile as he went on. "And the thousands of forces we faced were barely a fraction of what awaits us in Mordor."

"How can you know that?" Imrahil asked with a frown.

"Denethor saw it in his palantír," Gandalf said. "Though Sauron could twist what weaker minds saw in the glass, he could not make it lie, for the _palantíri_ were created for good."

"A palantír has only ever been a bringer of trouble in my experience," Tíniel said, remembering her near hanging in the City of Corsairs. "Now they bring ill news again."

"The point is, there is no victory to be had in arms against Sauron," Aragorn said.

"What are we to do then?" Imrahil said sharply. "Stay here, like children sitting on their sandcastles when the tide is washing in?"

Gandalf inclined his head. "There is no victory to be had in arms, he said. But there may yet be victory by another way."

"What way is left to us?" Elrohir – or perhaps Elladan – asked.

"Frodo and Sam are still on their way to Mount Doom," Aragorn said, determination filling his face. "We would know if the Enemy had the Ring, and he doesn't – not yet. And so long as he doesn't, there is hope that it may yet be destroyed, and undo all of his works with it."

"But Frodo and Sam are beyond our aid now," Tíniel said. "All we can do for them is hope that they are not detected."

"We can do better than hope, my dear," Gandalf said.

Aragorn nodded. "Sauron looks for signs, and we've been giving him plenty. I looked in the palantír when we were in Rohan, so he knows that the heir of Isildur lives, and he fears me. he knows the sword that first stole his treasure from him has been reforged. He has lost the battle for Gondor that he ought to have won, and he lost his captain in the process – courtesy of Tíniel and Éowyn."

"So he is afraid," Éomer said. "What of it? The cornered wolf will often bite all the sooner."

"His Eye is fixed very firmly on us, and on nothing else," Gandalf said triumphantly. "Frodo and Sam will remain undetected so long as we keep the Enemy's attention."

"But we will not keep it be remaining here," Halbarad said slowly.

"No," Aragorn agreed.

"Then we must march upon the Black Gates," Imrahil said. A weight seemed to settle on the shoulders of everyone present.

"Yes, I think that is the best way," Gandalf said. "This is no longer a war of strength; it is a waiting game. It is a test to see how long we can hold Sauron's attention, and this is the best way. All his signs point to it – if we march the Morannon, he _must_ pay attention."

"Then it is agreed?" Éomer asked half-heartedly. "Though weary and wounded, we go to our deaths at the gate of Mordor?"

"It is agreed," Aragorn said.

"Then Rohan can send one thousand."

"And Dol Amroth will pledge three thousand," Imrahil said grimly.

"I can spare two thousand Gondorian forces, perhaps," Faramir said. "For I would not leave Minas Tirith undefended and have you return to find it pillaged and burning."

"The Maruvikh will give two thousand, at least," Tíniel said.

"That is seven thousand," Aragorn said. "Enough of a challenge for the Enemy, I think."

"So, it is decided," Gandalf said, suddenly sounding weary. "Let us go then, and rest while we may. Notify your troops. We shall leave at dawn."

Aragorn stayed behind to speak with Gandalf and Imrahil, so Éomer wheeled Tíniel through the great hall while Faramir walked beside.

"What a strange building," Éomer said, looking up with distaste at the cold marble statues of the dead kings. "Can you imagine parties here? What a bore. I think the parties in Meduseld would be jollier."

"I've never known festivities to be held in here," Faramir said. "What a thought! Perhaps with the return of the king, there will be an occasion."

Tíniel looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. There would be no return of the king now, she realised. There would be no future for any who marched upon the Morannon. It filled her with an odd, cold sort of calm.

"You are quiet, sister," Faramir said with concern. He'd started calling her his sister again, and it made her smile.

"I am thinking of things that were, and things that will be," she said wryly. "And all the things that will no longer be, once this is all over."

"How very cryptic of you," Éomer said. "You have spent too much time with that Elf."

"We must have faith that they will come back," Faramir told her. "Always have hope."

She looked up at him. "I mean to go with them, Faramir."

He snorted. "Tíniel, you can't even walk."

"If someone puts me on a horse, I'll get there."

"You know you won't, sister. It would be agonising. It would be _impossible_."

"You ought to stay back," Éomer agreed.

Tíniel simply shook her head. "Nothing anyone can say will change my mind on this," she said quietly.

Faramir's smile faded. Both men seemed to sense that her tone brooked no argument, and they left the hall in silence.

* * *

Faramir grew tired halfway back to the Houses of Healing, so he and Tíniel stopped to rest in the gardens for a while. Faramir on a stone bench beside her. A lark landed in the branches of the tree flowering above them and chirped. They both looked up.

"Go away, bird," Faramir said. "Get out while you can." His voice was laden with weariness, and Tíniel looked sidelong at him. His face had taken on a sickly grey pallor.

"You really ought to go back to bed," she said. "You won't be completely free from the poison for a while yet."

"I can hardly get through two hours without fainting like a maiden in love," he said darkly, scuffing his boot on the cobbling stones. "I feel so weak."

"It'll get better," she promised. "That's what I keep being told. Give it a few days."

He sighed. "At least the Houses of Healing are a pleasant enough place to be. Well, when Anita's not breathing down my neck."

She nodded absent-mindedly. "She does have a habit of threatening her patients," she said. "Do you mean to march to Mordor with the others?"

He shook his head, not commenting at the abrupt change of subject. "I would, truly. But in this state… I would only be a burden. I'd slow them down. Besides, there should be someone left in Minas Tirith who knows the ropes."

"Oh!" Tíniel exclaimed. "I forgot that you are the Steward now!"

Faramir smiled slightly, but it was without joy. "Yes, I am the Steward of Gondor," he said.

She tilted her head. "And how does it feel?"

"Heavy," he replied. "Terrifying. Wrong somehow, for it was not meant for me."

"You'll do wonderfully," she said.

"I wish Boromir was here," he said bitterly. "He'd know exactly what to do. He spent his whole life preparing for this, but I spent mine reading _The Tragedy of Fëanor and his Sons_. Ridiculous."

"Well, it's a good book."

"Not for ruling a kingdom it's not."

"I miss him so much," she said softly. "It's like an ache, and it isn't letting up. You know, today is the twenty-first day since he died."

He looked sideways at her. "It feels longer," he said. "It feels like months and months."

"And it's been sixteen days since Borund died," she went on, staring down at the stone path. "And I shall leave here tomorrow, to go and die."

"Stay with me," Faramir said pleadingly. "Stay here, and stay alive for your people, for everyone who follows you."

She shook her head, smiling slightly. "There is nothing to stay for, Faramir. It has come down to deciding how we would like to die. I choose to die in battle, riding to meet my foe."

"There is hope still," he argued. "The captains spoke of a waiting game. The Halflings may yet succeed."

"Faramir, they have the chance of a candle in a thunderstorm. We are done for, and I will go to the Black Gate."

He stared at her, his jaw clenching and unclenching. "Tíniel, I wish you wouldn't say things like that," he said at last. But he had begun swaying a little where he sat, and she smiled.

"Let's get you to bed, Steward. You need it."

He wheeled her out of the gardens and back into the Houses, leaning heavily on the chair. They rattled past rows of beds and stretchers, all full of men. Most were sleeping or unconscious, but others watched their progress. Healers wound their way through the patients.

"Almost there," Faramir said tiredly, but he wasn't able to take another step before they were stopped by a voice that had struck terror into the hearts of many a healing soldier.

"Lord Faramir, did I not tell you _seven times_ yesterday that you were not to be walking about?"

He stopped, wincing. "My sincerest apologies, Anita," he said as she came bustling over, her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. "I, uh, had a meeting."

"Well I hope you told everyone you met that it would be the last one you shall ever attend, because at this rate, it _will_ be!"

Faramir hung his head. "But it was important…"

"This is so typical of you," she scolded him, wiping her hands on her apron. Tíniel saw that she had dark circles underneath her eyes. "You and your brother never gave me a minute of peace, and more often than not undid all my good work!"

"I am sorry," Faramir said pleadingly. "We were just on our way back, and I was going to sleep, I swear."

"Likely story," Anita said, shaking her head. Her eyes drifted down to the wheel-chair and widened immediately. "Tíniel?" she gasped.

Tíniel grinned. "The one and only!"

Anita rushed forward and kissed her several times on the cheeks. "By the stars! By the very _stars_ , I am glad to see you! Although –" Her face lapsed back into the scowl "– _you_ shouldn't be out of bed either, you silly girl." The scowl faded and she smiled again. "I am so sorry I haven't been to see you yet," she said. "I've been beyond busy here, trying to clean up after the battle. But I was thinking of you, every day."

"It is good to see you, my friend," Tíniel said. "And you do Gondor a service by your work. Is your family safe?"

"Aye, both of my boys," she replied with a smile. "Bergil is making a nuisance of himself somewhere, I am sure. And Beregond was stationed in the city during the battle, so he is resting now." Her eyes flicked up to Faramir.

"Beregond is the one that saved my life," he said. "That was your husband?"

"It was," Anita said with some pride. Then her eyes widened. "Tíniel, I have something for you!"

She disappeared for a second and then returned carrying something heavy, wrapped in dark red cloth.

"The palantír!" Tíniel realised, taking it from her. "I had forgotten about it!"

Anita inhaled sharply. "That is a palantír?" she said disbelievingly. "You gave me a _palantír_ to take care of, and you didn't even _tell_ me?"

"Yes," Tíniel said, "and you did admirably."

Anita shook her head, her hands returning to her hips. "It astounds me that you two are in charge of thousands and thousands of people," she said, "when I'm not sure if you could take care of yourselves."

"Well we haven't done wonderfully," Faramir reasoned. "We've somehow manoeuvred ourselves into the middle of a war that could enslave all mankind."

"True," Anita agreed, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards. "Now to bed with both of you. I have things to do."

"Just as you say, my lady," Faramir muttered, and they wheeled onward.

* * *

 **One of the perks of being locked away? You're getting more frequent updates! I hope you're all well and loving life.**

 **I sure am! All my very many characters are coming together in one place, and while it's a lot to juggle, it's loads of fun to create their interactions. Something else that is putting a smile on my dial is a subplot that I've been sitting on since Chapter Three. Where is Remuil, that mysterious, good lookin fella? What terrible past is he hiding from? And what is his true identity?**

 **I've been dropping clues through the entire story, though you might not have noticed, since – let's be honest – that early on, you really didn't care. But it's coming to a point now, and I'm _very_ excited. Go back through the story if you like – I can recommend the pirate ship chapters and the Lothlórien chapters for clues if you want to kill time. And let me know if you have any guesses as to his hidden identity!**

 **Enough out of me, you have lives to live and Netflix to binge. See you next chapter, in which you shall find crying, drink spiking and Harûk flirting with Tcharum. Not even kidding, mate.**

 **S**


	40. Farewells and Old Friends

**40 – FAREWELLS AND OLD FRI** **ENDS**

* * *

Faramir wheeled her back to her room, but he was too weak to lift her back into the bed.

"I am comfortable enough in the chair," she said. "Put me by the window, and I am sure Aragorn will be by soon."

"Will he indeed?" he smirked.

"Probably," Tíniel replied coolly. "Oh – and say hello to Éowyn for me."

The smirk was wiped from his face. "Wait, a moment, how did you know?" he huffed. "How could you _possibly_ have found out? It is unfair! And unfair of you to say things like that!"

"Know what?" she answered innocently. "She is my friend, and that is all." Faramir raised an eyebrow and folded his arms. "And she is very pretty," she added, the grin creeping onto her face. "Now go to bed, you look like death."

"Fine," he said, swooping in and kissing her on the cheek. "I'll see you soon."

"Until then."

She sat by the window for perhaps an hour, the palantír on her lap, staring out at the city and the plain below. She could see the mountains of Mordor in the distance; unnaturally dark smoke hovered ominously above them, lit dull red underneath by fire. She would be there soon.

It was going to be a challenge, the journey there. It would be painful, but she was willing to endure it. She would ride if she could, sit in the back of a wagon if she had to, but the one thing that she was certain of was that she would go.

She'd meant what she said to Faramir before. She didn't want to sit in Minas Tirith, waiting for the shadows to flow from the East again. She didn't want to watch while the city was surrounded and infiltrated, didn't want to be raped and tortured and finally executed. Death was coming for them all, and the last piece of freedom she had was to choose how it found her.

She knew she wouldn't last long in the battle. In this state, she'd be lucky if she lasted longer than a minute. But it would be a good death, a noble death, the kind she had wanted since she knew what death was.

Still, as she sat there, she couldn't stop herself wishing for something different, for a world that hadn't ended around her so soon, just as she had really begun to discover it.

She didn't know how long she'd been there, but she jerked back to reality when there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," she called. It opened to reveal Harûk and Tcharum.

"I don't know where you find these people," Tcharum bit off in Khandi, striding over to stand before her. "This man is the wildest, most ridiculous… What is he even _doing_ in the North? Why in the name of the gods is he _here?_ "

"Is this your brother?" Harûk asked her in Westron. "Because he is nothing like you. Even you can be fun on very, very rare occasions, but him… what a bore!"

"He has been talking incessantly for twenty minutes," Tcharum growled. "I don't think he knows that I can understand some of what he's saying, but I would struggle to find a ruder man this side of the desert!"

"He is _so boring,_ " Harûk continued dramatically. "Even Mahaya finds him dull, and Mahaya's own _mother_ found him boring. I don't know how you dealt with _that_ growing up. But also, by the great blue _whale_ he is handsome!"

Tíniel, wide-eyed, looked back at Tcharum. "Do you know, I didn't even know what the word _boring_ meant until he started following me around?" he asked desperately.

"I tell you, Tíniel, if I were a woman, I would marry him as quickly as I were able," Harûk said earnestly. "Though _you_ probably shouldn't, seeing as he is your brother. And also he's a bore. But those smouldering eyes! That jawline! And he's so tall! It's clear that he inherited all the good looks, and you inherited the slightly less boring personality."

"He just doesn't shut up," Tcharum said despairingly. "And I don't even know who he is…"

"It's alright," she said, unable to help laughing. "He is Harûk, a friend from the ship I was on."

"I know you're talking about me," Harûk said, his eyes narrowed. "It isn't very polite."

She frowned at his blatant hypocrisy and turned back to Tcharum. "Did you need something?"

"Yes," he said. "I heard there was a council this morning. Did you go? Do you know what the plan is?"

"We are marching to Mordor tomorrow at dawn," she said, and his face fell a little. "Tell the _bamyë_ that I order none to go, but any who wish should assemble outside the gates tomorrow."

"They will all go," he said sadly. "It is only honourable to go. And they would do anything for you."

"I know," she said softly. "But I will be with them."

His eyes widened. "No, Tchakhura. You cannot."

"I will be there, brother, like it or not."

"And have you informed Aragorn of this?"

"Well, it's none of his business," she said shortly. Tcharum raised his eyebrows, but she went on before he could say anything more. "I am sorry I cannot come to oversee the preparations, but… well. I am not in the best way."

"I shall see it done," he said. His expression turned dark. "As long as you keep this Harûk away from me it will be easy."

"What did he say?" Harûk asked, his head jerking up at the sound of his name.

"I said, you are _bad_ ," Tcharum snapped in Westron, turning around. "Stop to – to follow me! I do not like you!"

Harûk's eyes widened as Tcharum left the room. "When I said I wanted to marry you before, I was joking!" he called after him. There was no reply, and he turned back to Tíniel. "No I wasn't," he whispered, and she burst out laughing. She laughed so much that tears came to her eyes, half from the mirth and half from the pain in her broken ribs.

"Ah, Harûk. Never change," she said, when she could speak again. "But please stop torturing my poor brother. He isn't usually that boring, he just doesn't like you much."

"Well, I had little choice. I came here to find you, but you weren't here. So I went to find him to ask where you were, but he didn't reply, so I assumed he didn't speak Common. Which he clearly does," he said, throwing an accusatory glance at her. She grinned back.

"But I needed to speak with you, urgently, which was why I was being so persistent," he finished.

" _Annoying_ , I think Tcharum put it," she said. "But what is it?"

"Well," he said. He paused. "I'm not quite sure how to put this."

She sat up a little straighter. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, yes, fine… and, well, I know exactly how to put it. It's just, I know you have a lot on your shoulders, and I didn't know if I should bother you with it, but it's sort of very important, and –"

"Harûk," she cut across impatiently. "What is it?"

"It's Remuil," he said. "He's here. And he won't see anyone but you."

* * *

She waited with little patience for what felt like hours but was probably only one or two. Gimli, Merry and Pippin came to see her, but she could barely focus on what they were saying. A Healer brought her food, but she only picked at it. Remuil was coming.

She wasn't sure why she was so nervous. She'd lived with him for a long while, and though he'd been distant, he'd been kind enough. But since then, she'd learned things about him. She knew he was an Elf now. The lady Galadriel had recognised him when she'd seen him in her mirror, too… there was something special about Remuil, and possibly something dangerous.

But the quiet afternoon grew late, and still no one came. Her thoughts began to turn to the upcoming battle again, and she began to wish for Aragorn. She sighed and turned back from the window to reach for her water-flask – and ended up drawing her knife.

A tall figure, hooded and wearing a black cloak, stood against the far wall, watching her. She waited for her heart to stop racing and let out a long breath, loosening the grip on her knife.

"How long have you been there?" she asked with forced calm.

He shrugged gracefully. "A minute."

They stared at each other, unmoving. She couldn't see his face; his whole body was hidden by the cloak. But at last he reached up and lowered his hood. His black hair, tied back as always, glinted in the late sun.

"Remuil," she said.

"Tíniel," he replied, and moved to stand behind her. He gripped the chair and turned it around, so that she was facing into the room. He didn't comment on her fading bruises or her broken arm. "It has been years."

He sat on the chair beside the bed, still with that fluid grace. Tíniel didn't know what to say; now that he was in the room with her, she was even more aware of how dangerous he could be.

"I have been busy," she said cautiously, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. The pain was returning.

He caught her tone and dropped his eyes. "I understand if you do not wish to speak with me. I beg only a moment of your time."

She softened a little. "Forgive me, Remuil," she said. "The times are strange. I am glad you have come."

He smiled at this. "Your Westron is perfect."

"I've picked up one or two things here in the North," she said. "I know what Elves are now too."

"What a pity," he said lightly, watching her so closely it was almost unsettling. "I enjoyed my years of anonymity at sea." His gaze flicked to her lap. "What is that?"

She drew the _vadi_ well over the stone, though it was already covered. "The thing that split us apart, funnily enough. It is a palantír."

"Then perhaps it is fate that has brought me here."

She returned his stare, but he was unreadable. "Why did you come inland, Remuil? The others told me you decided to stay with the ship."

"That is a tale in itself," he said, "and perhaps someday I shall give you all of it. But for now, I shall say only this: I came to repay my debt to you."

Tíniel frowned. "You owe me no debt."

"But I do," he said, and a shadow of sadness came into his face. "I failed you, that day in the City of Corsairs. I watched you be taken from us, against your will. I had sworn to protect every person on my ship, no matter his past, while he remained a part of my crew. But I failed to protect you."

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter now. Besides, what could you have done?"

"Something," he replied. "I could have done _something_ , and I did not. I sat and watched you go."

"Then I hold you released from your oath to protect me," she said, smiling a little. "I've done well enough for myself. And as I told Mahaya and Harûk, being take to Gondor is something I do not regret."

"Indeed, you seem to have built a life for yourself here," he said. "But never in my life have I broken an oath." Immeasurable pain flashed across his face, but as soon as it had come, it was gone. "So, in answer to your question, I have come to protect you in repayment of a promise broken, no matter the cost."

She stared at him for a moment, her mouth slightly ajar. Then she snapped it shut. "I'm not sure what to tell you, Remuil," she said. "It's just… I can understand that you will not break your oath, but… well, the thing is, we're marching to the Black Gates tomorrow morning."

A shadow shifted over Remuil's face. "I see," he said. "And you?"

"I will march too," she said. Something in his face twitched.

"That is unwise," he said.

"Nevertheless."

"Tíniel, I beg you to think about this," he said. "It may be a decision that many will come to regret."

"I have thought about it a great deal," she said stonily. "I wish to have the power to control my own death, and no one – no matter how many have and will try – shall dissuade me. Not even you."

"Have you considered what will happen if we win?" Remuil asked. "Certainly, it seems hopeless. But I have witnessed triumph against greater odds. If the Enemy is defeated, the army will return home. But you will be dead."

Tíniel opened her mouth to retort, but she paused as she considered what he'd just said. What if they did win? What if, against all odds, their plan worked, and Frodo destroyed the Ring while they were drawing Sauron's gaze? She will have died in the first moments of the battle, unable to defend herself in her state. Life would go on, without her.

They would come home, triumphant. The King would return to Gondor, and there would be the first real chance at peace. Tcharum would be the Khondyë of the Maruvikh. Faramir would be Steward, and Éomer the King of Rohan. The crew of the _Haedannen_ would go back to sea, and the Easterlings and Haradrim would be free from their overlord. There would be peace, and joy. And she would be dead.

In a flash, she realised that she desperately wanted to be there. It was what she had fought for, what she had struggled for the past years – peace, and freedom for those in bondage. She wanted to cling to her life, cling to the chance to see it come true…

But the alternative was worse.

The beautiful vision faded from her gaze, and she shook her head.

"I must go," she said quietly. "I will go, and I will die."

Remuil watched her with his ancient, unreadable blue eyes. "Very well," he said at last. "You have chosen. But understand that I must fulfil my vow. I will protect you."

"If it is your wish," she said. "But only a fool would stay on a sinking ship."

"One more thing, then," he said. "I ask a favour. I do not wish to reveal myself to anyone here. Will you allow me to march to the Morannon with your army?"

Tíniel studied him, indecisive, but in the end she sighed. "I do not trust you any longer, Remuil," she said. "Since I left you, I have heard… whispers about you. There is more to you than meets the eye."

"That is true of everyone on the _Haedannen_ ," he said. "You seemed an ordinary girl when I first met you. Now you are a leader of thousands."

"Maybe so," she said. "Remuil, what is your true name?"

He stared at her, and she thought she saw a turmoil of pain and longing in deep his eyes. "If we meet again after the Black Gate," he said, "I will tell you."

She held his gaze for a moment. "As you say," she relented at last. "I too owe you a debt, Remuil. You took me in when I was at my weakest, and you gave me home without questions. Pass me the paper and quill there."

He did so, and she dipped it into the ink and scratched a rough image of the Maruvikh standard: a curved sword before a setting sun. She blew on it to dry it.

"Go down to the second circle of the city and ask for Tcharum, my brother," she instructed, handing the paper to him. "Show him this and ask for a tunic and a _vadi_. He will know I sent you. You will march with us tomorrow."

Remuil nodded slowly. "I thank you," he said.

"One more thing," she added. "During my travels, I passed through the Golden Wood." Remuil stiffened, but said nothing. She went on. "I looked in Galadriel's mirror, and I saw you. She saw you too."

"Alas for that," he said, getting to his feet quickly, his brows creased. "This is ill news for me."

"She gave me a message for you, in case I ever met you again," she went on deliberately, trying to gauge his reaction. "I did not understand it, but perhaps you will."

Remuil looked down at her, stone-faced. "Perhaps I will come to regret the day I let you on board my ship," he said. "What was the message?"

"She said, _the curse died with the stones_ ," she quoted. "And _perhaps you will have a second chance._ "

Remuil's eyes widened, and he sank back down into the chair. "A second chance?" he whispered, the turmoil in his eyes clearer than ever. "Did she speak truly?"

But a moment later, he leapt to his feet again, his eyes on the door. Seconds later, there was a knock, and it opened to reveal Aragorn. He glanced between her and Remuil.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Am I interrupting?"

"Not at all," Remuil said, his imperturbable mask back in place. "Well met, Isildur's heir."

Aragorn entered the room slowly, his eyes fixed on the Elf. "We have not met before," he said.

"I have seen you, but you did not see me."

"How do you know me?"

"In 2980, you led a fleet of Gondorian ships against the Umbar province," Remuil said, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "You slew the Pirate King. I remember you, for your face and manner takes after that of your forefather. But you have a strength and a kindness in you that he did not have. That is well. You will make a good king, if it should come to that."

Tíniel saw Aragorn's eyes widen fractionally. She was sure Remuil noticed it too. "Who are you?" Aragorn asked steadily.

"I have had many names," Remuil replied. "Strong-voice, Gold-cleaver; mother-names, father-names, names given for good and bad deeds. You may call me Remuil. And what is your name, son of Isildur?"

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. "You may call me Estel," he said.

Remuil laughed at that. "I had forgotten the arrogance of Northern Men," he said. "But then, I have witnessed arrogance far greater among my own kind, and my own family. Well met, Estel son of Isildur." He looked down at Tíniel again and smiled. "It is a good name for the hope of all the Free People, do you not think?"

"Good enough," she agreed. "He has brought hope to us all."

Remuil studied her for a moment, and she felt his eyes strip her to her core. Then he leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead.

"A thousand blessings to you, silent woman," he said quietly. "For you have brought hope to me today – a light in an unseen darkness that I thought eternal. Perhaps it is ill to gain hope so soon before death… but perhaps not. At least I shall feel alive before I die."

He touched her cheek and turned back to Aragorn, leaving Tíniel more confused than ever.

"Will you show me to the herb gardens, Isildur's son? I wish to walk with you, and perhaps we could find something to help us there."

Aragorn looked at Tíniel, and she shrugged, baffled. "It would be an honour," he said. Remuil went to the door and turned to look at her one last time.

"Until we meet again," he said, "if ever we do."

* * *

They were gone for a little more than half an hour. Tíniel sat in her chair, waiting for Aragorn to return. Dusk had fallen, and she could see soldiers in the city below her preparing to leave the next morning. Where before the thought of going had made her anguished, it now only brought her a strange kind of peace.

She wondered at the identity of Remuil. She wondered at the fact that she would possibly never have the use of her legs again, wondered whether Éowyn and Faramir would confess their admiration to each other, or what Petakh's baby would have been called. And then she stopped wondering, because she realised that in a few days, none of it would matter.

The stars were beginning to come out when Aragorn returned with a little glass bottle in his hands. He shut the door quietly behind him.

"Remuil told me that you mean to go to the Black Gates," he said, his voice unreadable.

"I do," she said softly, preparing for a fight. "Did you not guess?"

"I hoped you wouldn't."

"Then I am sorry."

He sat down in the chair that Remuil had recently vacated. "Please don't go," he said quietly, the stifled emotion evident in his voice.

"Aragorn…"

"You don't understand, I… I can cope with the thought of my own death. But when I think of _you_ dying, I…" he sighed. "It hurts me in a way I never knew I could hurt. I turn cold, I can't _breathe_. Please don't go."

"We will be together the only way that we can be together," she said firmly, swallowing the lump in her throat. "In death."

"So be it then," he said.

She frowned. "That's it? I thought you would put up more of a fight than that."

He smiled hollowly. "I know better than to try to change your mind by now."

She stared at him. Something didn't quite feel right, but she decided to let it drop. It was the last night they would be able to spend in peace together. She didn't want to spend it worrying.

"Will you get me out of this chair?" she said. "It's getting uncomfortable."

It wasn't just uncomfortable – it was getting mind-numbingly painful, but Aragorn seemed to sense that without it being said. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he lifted her out with the gentleness that never failed to surprise her. He laid her on the bed and pulled off her shoes.

"I'll give you something for the pain," he said.

But she shook her head. "Not yet," she said. "It makes me slow, and, well… I don't want to be slow at the moment."

He stared at her, his expression indecipherable even after all the time she'd known him. Then he lay down beside her, putting his head on the pillow next to hers.

"Why not?"

She smiled, but it was sad. "Because I just want to be here, with you for a while."

"For the last time," he whispered.

"Why did the Valar draw us to each other?" she asked quietly. "It has brought us only pain, and I cannot understand why."

"Is that true? Have you felt only pain?"

She hesitated. "No."

"Nor I," he said, his grey eyes flickering. "I am glad it happened, despite the hardship it brought. I am glad I dreamed of you, and that I met you in Rivendell, and that I kissed you that night in Lothlórien."

"I'm glad I kissed you by the Anduin when I went East," she said. "And I'm glad we met again at Helm's Deep. And even that you found me on the battlefield here."

"I would have liked very much to marry you."

"I would have liked that too."

"We could have lived here in Minas Tirith."

"I might have taken you over to Khand, to see my homeland."

"I would have liked that."

"We could have had children," she said, feeling a tear gather in the corner of her eye. "I had a vision once, when Denethor imprisoned me. I was holding a tiny baby boy. I think it was ours."

Aragorn took her one of her hands between his. "What did he look like?"

"His skin was lighter than mine, but darker than yours. His eyes were big and brown, and his hair was curly." The tear slipped from her eye, and Aragorn leaned forwards and kissed it away.

"What else?" he whispered.

"In his eyes… there was trust. The kind that only a child could have. And I loved him so much, I could just tell…"

"And what would his name be?"

" _Bahakh_ ," she said. "I would name him Bahakh. It means _love_."

"I always wanted to name my son Adanion," he said.

"What does that mean?"

"Son of Man. It's an Elvish name, like yours."

"Hm. I like it."

"We would have been happy," he said quietly. "We would have lived, really _lived_. And as long as you were with me, everything would have been as it was meant to be."

She pulled his hands up to her mouth and kissed them one after the other. "What a beautiful dream."

The sadness of reality crashed over Aragorn's features, and without warning, he pulled her closer and kissed her.

It was unlike any other kiss they'd shared. It was hard, rough, filled with desperation and a knowledge that it would come to an end all too soon. Tíniel kissed him back passionately and despairingly, trying to imprint the feeling on her memory. Too quickly, he pulled back an inch, and they stayed there, their breaths mingling.

"By the Valar, I love you," Aragorn whispered, his voice barely audible.

"I love you too," she replied. "It hurts so much."

"I know," he said, and he kissed her again. "I know. I know. I don't want to say goodbye to you."

He kissed her deeply, longingly, but she pushed him away. "We don't have to say goodbye yet," she said. "We'll ride to the gate together, won't we?"

He just kissed her again, and this time she could feel the wetness of tears. He was crying. She returned the kiss, trying to tug him closer with her one arm.

"I love you," she mumbled against him. He pulled away, planting a kiss on each of her cheeks, then on her eyes and her nose, and at last her forehead. He pulled back, and she watched him as he watched her back. Tears were falling steadily from his eyes.

"Why is everything all wrong?" he whispered. She brushed some of the tears away and shook her head.

"I don't know."

After a moment, he rolled away from her and grabbed her flask of water from the bedside table. He took the little glass bottle from his pocket, removed the stopper and poured its contents into the water. Then he shook it and handed it to her.

"Drink this."

"What is it?"

"An Elvish potion that Remuil made for you. It will take away all your pain, but it won't slow your mind."

"Really?" she asked, unstoppering it and sniffing. It smelled like warm jasmine and crushed orange leaves.

"Drink it," he said heavily. "Drink it all, and it will make you feel better."

It tasted exactly how it had smelled – not at all unpleasant, and easy to drink. But as she swallowed the last mouthful, she felt a tingling weariness creep into her fingertips. Her arms suddenly felt too heavy to hold up, and they fell to her side. Aragorn took the flask from her hand, not meeting her eyes.

"Aragorn," she said, the fuzziness creeping into her head. "Aragorn, what…"

He looked up, and his face twisted. "Valar, I'm sorry, Tíniel," he said. Some part of her saw that his body had begun to shake with restrained sobs. "I'm so sorry, but I couldn't watch you die. Not again."

There was something terrible that she needed to realise, but waves of weariness were crashing over her now, and she couldn't grasp it.

"I love you," he said, taking her hand again. "I love you, and I will do everything I can to keep you safe…"

Then the blackness flooded in, and she slept.

* * *

 _Flickering images came and went like sunlight through water._

 _She was in Imladris at the Council of Elrond. "Speak the words of the prophecy, Tíniel," Elrond said to her, "for they are destined to touch the lives of every being in Middle-earth."_

 _She turned around and found herself surrounded by the towering mallorn trees of Lothlórien, lit by a pale crescent moon. Galadriel smiled down at her knowingly._

" _There are swords sharper than those we wield in battle," she said, her voice echoing in every part of Tíniel's being. "Do not fear what you do not know, princess."_

" _But I do," Tíniel replied as the Lady dissolved before her. "I am afraid."_

" _To accept one's fate is not to be powerless," she said, but suddenly she had become Akhund. He tilted his pointed hat toward her jauntily and grinned. "Nor does acknowledging fear show cowardice."_

" _But I don't know what to do!" she sobbed, falling to her knees. Someone pulled her back up, and she looked up to see Aragorn. It was his image, but she could tell he was not really there._

" _We're going to be alright," he said gently. "We are two broken people, but we're going to be alright."_

" _You can't say that," she whispered. "Soon you and I will both be dead."_

 _He blinked, and when his eyes opened again, they were a blinding shade of violet. He spoke in a voice that was at once terrible and majestic._

" _Fleeing from hate and hiding from fear,_

 _Betrayer of those who hold her most dear:_

 _First for life,_

 _Next for gold,_

 _Last to follow what heart has told."_

 _She had raised her shaking hands to cover her ears, the words unwanted, but the purple-eyed Aragorn reached up and gently pulled them down._

" _Light to be in a darkness unseen," he went on in the voice that wasn't his. "Part of two worlds, yet torn between…"_

" _The greatest to be, despite hatred and scorn," she finished for him, "is the lowest among you, the Khondyë's firstborn."_

" _Yes," he whispered, the violet glow from his eyes pulsing. "Yes, we shall make you the greatest…"_

She jerked awake, breathing hard. She was still in her bed, in the Houses of Healing. But Aragorn was gone, and there was someone else beside her, sewing in the candlelight.

"Healer Ioreth," she rasped, trying to sit up and making her head swim. The old woman looked up and smiled.

"Ah, awake at last, child. We wondered how long it would last."

Tíniel frowned. "What – where is Aragorn?"

"The lord Aragorn? Why, he left with the others!"

Tíniel's stomach growled with hunger, and she froze. Something was very, very wrong. "What do you mean, _left_?"

"They gathered their forces and marched off to Mordor," Ioreth said, her smile disappearing. "And if the Valar are good, they shall bring them back again too."

"No," Tíniel whispered. "No, no, no…" she looked up at Ioreth. "They left this morning?"

"Yesterday morning, my child," Ioreth said, laying her sewing aside. "You have slept for two nights and two days. Oh, and there was this left for you." She picked up a folded bit of parchment from the bedside table and passed it to Tíniel.

"This cannot be," Tíniel said to herself, her heartbeat increasing in speed and her breath coming short. "This cannot be…"

"Is there anything I can do for you, child?" Ioreth said, concern creeping into her voice.

"Leave me, please," Tíniel breathed. The Healer hesitated, but eventually picked up her sewing and got to her feet.

"Just shout if you want me, then," she said, dropping a shallow curtsy. She shut the door behind her, and with shaking hands, Tíniel unfolded the paper.

 _Tíniel_ , it read.

 _I am sorry, but I cannot let you come with me to the Gates. Perhaps there is no chance of victory. But if there is a world after Sauron, I need you to be in it. Remuil made the sleeping potion, but do not blame him. I made you drink it._

 _If I don't come back from Mordor, I want you to know that I love you more than I've loved anything in the world._

 _Aragorn._

* * *

 **I'm not crying, _you're_ crying... Review of the week goes to Pyo-Kiyo for guessing exactly how Tiniel would be made to stay behind!**

 **And the mystery of Remuil continues too! Curiouser and curiouser. And also, we've hit another milestone – forty chapters! Thanks a trillion to every person who has followed, favourited and especially reviewed. And not just in English either, entonces ¡muchas gracias!**

 **The end draws near; there are only five or six chapters left, and they shall likely be a bit shorter (lucky this one's a whopper ay). So keep reading and I love youse all!**

 **S**


	41. Waiting

**41 – WAITING**

* * *

She sobbed.

She didn't know how long she spent lying there, her body heaving painfully with great, wracking sobs. Tears streamed down her cheeks and inhuman sounds escaped her mouth.

She didn't think she had ever felt anything worse than what she felt at that moment. It felt like there was a vice around her lungs that was preventing her from breathing properly. It felt like there were two hands around her heart, wrenching it violently in two.

She had been betrayed.

Not only by Aragorn, the man she loved, or by Remuil, an old friend. Tcharum hadn't woken her, though he'd known she wanted to go. Harûk and Mahaya too had left her behind. Faramir, Éowyn, Petakh and Éomer had left her sleeping. Anita had set Ioreth to watch over her. Gimli and Legolas had gone without her. Even Gandalf and Imrahil had a hand in it.

With great effort, she rolled over onto her side and retched. She hadn't eaten for days, and nothing came up but bile. A red flash caught her eye, and with a groan, she looked up.

It was the palantír that Aragorn had given to her for safekeeping, still wrapped in the _vadi_ and placed on the bedside table.

 _Take it for me,_ he'd said, _in the faith that I will come back._

And he had come back from the Paths of the Dead, only to leave again. She rolled herself back onto the bed and let her tears silently fall. He was gone, to die without her.

She remembered what he had said before he'd left her – that he couldn't bear the thought of her dying. Now she felt her pain triple as she imagined him impaled on an orc's blade, his skull crushed by a troll, his throat slit by an uncaring enemy, bleeding dry into the black dust of the plain. He was going to die without her, and she couldn't bear it.

Gasping through her tears, she dragged herself upright and tried to stand. But as soon as she put weight on her legs, they collapsed beneath her, and she crumpled to the ground. She cried out as the agony put a blanket over her brain, but after a few minutes it subsided. Aragorn was not there to comfort her this time, and she began to crawl towards the door.

She was almost there when it swung open, and she was nearly hit in the head.

"Tíniel!" came a gasp, and she recognised the voice as Faramir's.

"Let me be," she choked out. "If I must make my own way to the battle, I will!"

He wrapped one arm around her torso and hoisted her into the air. She cried out through gritted teeth as the pain from her ribs and her arm set stars bursting in her eyes. When she could see and think again, she had been put down in the wheelchair.

"Let's go for a walk," Faramir said with forced cheerfulness, and pushed her out of the room.

She was dressed only in her thin white gown, and she shivered at the brisk night air. Her tears continued to fall. Faramir didn't seem to notice.

He took her through the Houses, where there were significantly fewer patients than there had been the last time they visited. Dully, she noted that Anita wasn't there. Perhaps she was spending time with her son now that Beregond had marched off with Aragorn. Something twisted inside her, and she shut her mouth to stifle another sob.

At last they made it to the gardens. Faramir wheeled her a fair way in, until they reached an old oak tree. Its moss-covered branches dipped down to the ground so that once he wheeled her to the trunk, they were concealed from everything else.

"Éowyn," Faramir called, turning Tíniel so that her back was to the trunk and she was facing him. "She's here."

Moments later, Éowyn emerged, grim faced and wearing a blue cloak over her white dress.

"Hello Tíniel," she said cautiously. Tíniel futilely wiped the tears from her cheeks in response.

Éowyn and Faramir exchanged a glance. They both stood before her, their arms folded. Faramir had a challenging glint in his eye, and Éowyn's chin was jutted forward.

"Alright," he said. "Go."

Tíniel drew in a number of shallow, shaking breaths before she looked up. "How _could_ you?" she said in a deadly whisper. Neither of them replied, so she went on, her voice growig in volume. "How could you stand by and let them leave me behind?"

"We did it for your safety," Faramir said neutrally.

She stared up at him, another tear falling soundlessly. "I didn't want to be safe, Faramir," she bit out. Her voice was shaking, and it became a shout as she continued. "I wanted to be dead. I wanted to be _dead,_ but instead I was betrayed by everyone I love!"

"You have to admit there's an irony there," he said quietly. Something snapped inside her, and she began to shake uncontrollably.

"How could you let this happen?" she yelled, barely knowing what she was saying. "Why did you let him go without me? I deserve the pain, I know, I know, but it hurts – it _hurts_." She hunched over, trying and failing to stop the shaking. " _Hamariag_ , it hurts, Faramir, and it won't stop, and he is gone without me, he is gone…"

Through the numbness, she felt gentle hands on her shoulders, pulling her back upright. Éowyn wrapped a shawl around her and knelt before her.

" _We_ are with you," she said, her own blue eyes full of unshed tears. "Tíniel, you and I faced down a beast that had terrorised men for ages past. We can face whatever befalls us now, and we will face it together."

She began to cry harder, and Faramir took her head in his hands and kissed her forehead. "I'm so sorry, little sister," he said, pulling her against him and rocking her gently back and forth. "I'm so sorry."

* * *

The next few days Tíniel spent in a hollow daze. She only ate when somebody made her, and her sleep was restless and disturbed by vivid nightmares and cryptic doom dreams. She barely spoke, and her eyes were always focussed on the Eastern horizon.

The shadows had been growing darker and larger again, and to those in Minas Tirith, it was a clear sign: Sauron was preparing for battle.

"Do you think they've arrived?" Anita said on the morning of the fifth day. She was sitting with her son Bergil, Tíniel, Faramir and Éowyn on a balcony that looked East over the Pelennor. "At the Black Gate, I mean. Do you think they're there yet?"

"Not yet," Faramir said. "It would take at least seven days to march a host of seven thousand from here to there, I think."

"So, there is time yet," Éowyn murmured, her eyes fixed on the far mountains of Mordor. Tíniel noted dispassionately that there were dark shadows under her eyes, but she only felt a faint stirring of concern. The waiting was wearing all of them thin, but their suffering would be over soon.

"Time for what?" Anita asked, a hint of bitterness in her voice. "To wait until he comes for us? Time to count our last few breaths?"

"We cannot despair," Faramir said, glancing down at Bergil. Tíniel knew he was forcing himself to sound sure. "While the Enemy does not have the Ring, we have hope."

Anita frowned. "What is the Ring?"

Tíniel looked back over the plain, her thoughts drifting away from the conversation around her. She wanted this to be over, this false semblance of living. More than anything, she wished she'd been allowed to go to the Gates. But it was too late for that now.

"Tíniel," Faramir was saying. " _Tíniel._ Are you listening, woman?"

She looked up, blinking tiredly. "What?"

"How many of your tribe have stayed behind, I asked," he said, his eyes softening.

She put a hand to her temple. Her hands had taken to constantly trembling, and she'd given up trying to make it stop.

"Uh… I don't know exactly," she said, her voice soft and hoarse from disuse. "Tcharum – my brother, he allowed everyone who wished to march to battle. Mothers, pregnant women, the old, even the young." She clutched the folded-over parchment in her lap, the letter Aragorn had left her. "Everyone except me."

There was a silence that was laden with unspoken hurt. Young Bergil got up from Anita's side and went to sit on the ground by Tíniel's feet. It made her feel like crying.

"Beregond is gone too," Anita said quietly, adjusting her apron needlessly. "I asked him to stay and defend Minas Tirith rather than going to the gates. It was the first time I ever asked him to stay behind."

"Would that we had died on the Pelennor Fields," Éowyn said suddenly, her voice bitter. "Would that the Witch-king had struck us down, and that I watched over the world with my uncle and Théodred."

Faramir looked sidelong at her, his grey eyes filled with indecipherable emotion. "Untimely ends may come for us all yet," he said at last. "Yes, the time we have left may be a curse. But it may also be a blessing. We must use it to prepare for the storm that is coming."

"What can we do?" Anita asked. "We have a skeleton army defending the city, and half of them are only here because they were too wounded to go Morgul Vale."

"Are we going to die, Ma?" Bergil asked. There was another long silence, and then Anita sighed.

"Probably, my boy. But lord Faramir is right. We shall prepare and do it with honour, just like your father."

The boy, not even ten years old, simply nodded stoically. Tíniel looked back out to the East, but her attention was soon drawn back by the arrival of Ingold.

"Good morning," he said in his usual, restrained manner. "I was looking for Tíniel."

"Well, you found her," Faramir said. "Though you'll have to let us know if you have any luck getting more than a handful of words out of her."

Tíniel didn't have the energy to respond to the half-hearted jibe. She shut her eyes and sank further back into her chair.

"Will you join us, Ingold?" Anita said. He hesitated, but nodded and took a seat reluctantly.

"Thank you," he said awkwardly. "It has become harder to find ways to pass the time recently."

"We were just discussing that," Éowyn said darkly.

Ingold glanced over at her. "I don't think we've had the pleasure, my lady," he said.

"This is lady Éowyn of Rohan," Faramir said to him, making the introduction. "She slew the Witch-king of Angmar in the battle. And Éowyn, this is Ingold. He was… he was Boromir's lover."

There was a sharp intake of breath from around the circle. Éowyn's eyes widened fractionally, and even Tíniel opened her eyes fractionally. Faramir shrugged apologetically at Ingold.

"If we're all going to die, there's no point in hiding it."

The other man shook his head minutely. "A paragon of subtlety as always, Faramir," he said wryly. Then he glanced at Anita. "You knew, lady?"

"Well, no one ever _told_ me," she said with a distinct air of guilt. "But… well, the thing is… I had to tend to both of you several times. And Boromir talked in his sleep."

Ingold winced. "He used to do that, yes."

"I'm sure no one else noticed," she said comfortingly.

"You _are_ an annoyingly perceptive Healer," Faramir muttered.

"Well, even if I only know you a day or two, we are well met, Ingold," Éowyn said. "When did you lose your arm?"

Ingold blinked at the forthright question. "Osgiliath, in the summer of last year."

"And why have you stayed behind?"

"To defend the city, lady," he said. Then he looked pointedly at Tíniel. "And I count myself fortunate and honoured to be here."

"Please, Ingold," she said quietly. "Now is hardly the time for a lecture."

Abruptly, Ingold got to his feet, his face turning thunderous. Everyone looked at him in shock.

"I think it's the perfect time for a lecture," he snapped. "I think it's about time everyone stops tiptoeing around you and that you start acting like the full-grown woman you are!"

Tíniel blinked slowly and turned to face him. "Do not speak to me like that."

"I shall speak to you as you need to be spoken to," he said, approaching her with righteous determination written over his face. Tíniel felt the stirrings of anger break through the cold emptiness.

"You don't know what I have endured these past days," she said, the emotion leaking into her voice.

"You think I don't know?" he spat, coming to a stop directly in front of her. "You think you're the only one who knows that we're sitting ducks here, waiting to die? You think we don't all want to sit there silently and feel sorry for ourselves?' He snorted. "But I don't know why I am surprised. You always were selfish!"

"How dare you?" she hissed. "I mourn for my people, my friends, the man I love, all gone to their deaths! I grieve that I no longer have a chance at an honourable death! I am faced with the thought that I will never walk again in the time that is left to me, and you call me _selfish_?"

"You think I don't know how it feels?" he snorted, brandishing his stumped arm. "You aren't mourning, Tíniel, you're _wallowing_ , wallowing in your own damned self-pity _._ You're thinking only of how _you_ feel and ignoring the needs of the tens, the hundreds who are still here and relying on you!"

"What's the point?" she shouted, throwing her hands up. "Why should I look after them when it will all be over in a matter of days? Why should I be there for them when there is no one left there for me?"

"Because it's your _duty!"_ he bellowed back into her face.

"Well, I don't want it anymore!" she yelled, trying to get to her feet. The agony was instant and blinding, and she collapsed to the ground with a cry. She could see Ingold, see the worry on his face. As the pain faded to a dull roar, he lifted her into a sitting position on the ground.

"I'm sorry," she croaked. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You're right."

"I know," he said, smiling crookedly. "I'm sorry too, I didn't mean for you to get hurt."

She grunted through gritted teeth as she shifted position and grabbed his arm for balance. "Oh, you didn't?"

"No. I only meant to make you angry enough to jolt you out of your misery."

"You think there's no one left for you?" Éowyn asked. " _We_ are here." Tíniel looked up with an effort. She'd almost forgot the others were there.

"And we aren't going anywhere," Faramir added.

"And anyway, it doesn't matter if you can't walk," Bergil said, shuffling over to sit next to her on the ground, "because you can just make everyone push you around in your chair, because you're in charge of them!"

She ruffled his hair, smiling tiredly. "Don't know why I didn't think of that before," she said. She turned to Ingold. "Can you lift me?"

He nodded and scooped her up and into her chair. She bit her tongue to keep from whimpering at the stabs of pain that came with the movement.

"Sorry," he said quietly, wincing, but she shook her head.

"I'm fine. Take me to the second circle."

* * *

Tíniel farewelled the others, and Ingold pushed her the long way down to the second circle. It wasn't hard to find the remainder of the Maruvikh tribe; they followed the sound of singing.

Ingold stopped outside a large building that looked like a warehouse. Perhaps it had stored bags of grain or barrels of wine before, but now it housed what was left of Tíniel's people.

"I won't go in," Ingold said. "You'll be alright?"

"Of course," she replied. He nodded shortly and turned to leave, but she grabbed his hand. "Ingold. Thank you. Not everyone would have done that for me."

He shrugged, looking down. "I did my duty by you. Now you do yours to your people."

She nodded slowly, and he smiled his crooked smile and walked away.

Tíniel leaned forward gingerly and knocked on the door. There was no pause in the singing, and she sat back and sighed.

"There's never a chance at civility here," she muttered, and cleared her throat to shout. " _Khuma!_ "

The song broke off and she heard the patter of small feet. The door was opened by a girl around the same age as Bergil, and when she saw it was Tíniel, her mouth dropped open.

"The Khondyë is back!" she yelled back into the house. Then her eyes widened and she saluted quickly and clumsily. "Sorry, Khondyë! _Khuma Khondyë_!"

"Khuma," Tíniel replied, suppressing a grin. "It's Gura, isn't it?"

"Yes, Khondyë," the girl replied. There was a crowd of young children gathering behind her now, and excited murmurs of the Khondyë's return rippled through them.

"Well, may I come in, my friends?" she asked.

"Yes!' Gura said, stepping aside. Tíniel cleared her throat awkwardly.

"I might need a little help," she said. "Would someone push me in?"

The children stumbled over themselves to be the one to do the Khondyë a service, but Tíniel couldn't help but flush with shame at her own uselessness.

But at last she was in the building.

" _Khuma Khondyë,"_ came a slow voice from the left. Tíniel glanced sideways and saw a group of twenty or so Elders, sat cross-legged in a circle. "You have returned to your people at last."

" _Khuma,_ " she replied. "I am only sorry it took so long."

The one who had spoken before got to his feet slowly and with an effort. It was Tarond, a man who had once captained the Maruvikh _variag_ and had been a member of two chiefs' war councils.

"You were healing, Khondyë," he said. "It is best that you come to us well."

She looked down at herself seated in the chair, embarrassed again. "Almost well," she said. "Unfortunately, I… I cannot walk."

Tarond tugged on his white beard, watching her with coal black eyes that twinkled. "Can you move your legs?" he asked.

She frowned. "Yes, but barely."

"Then there is hope, Khondyë," he said, nodding with satisfaction. "With time, you will be up and rushing about again, just as you always have."

"We don't have time, I'm afraid," she said. "But tell me, how many went with Tcharum?"

"Almost all of us, Khondyë," Tarond said. "Two thousand remain – the very old, the very young and the very injured."

"I suppose I am one of the three," she said, trying to keep her tone light.

"There is a reason we kept you here, Khondyë," Tarond said gravely. Behind him, the Elders nodded as one. "It was a betrayal, yes, but you are our leader. We need you, even if we must become _khaviga_ to keep you."

"Well," she said into the silence. "I am here now. We have lit our fire. Now we will watch it burn."

"Indeed," he said, a smile stretching the uncountable lines on his face. "Welcome back, Khondyë."

* * *

Two days later, the Eastern shadow began to grow. It billowed up from the mountains like a fist ready to come down, and none in Minas Tirith could take their eyes from it.

"The battle has begun," Faramir murmured.

Tíniel didn't reply, but she didn't take her eyes from the mountains. Her heart was hammering in her throat, and her stomach clenched and unclenched. Aragorn was out there. Aragorn was beneath the Shadow, fighting for her and all the free people of Middle-earth.

"Come on, Frodo," she whispered under her breath.

It went on for hours and hours. She sat in her chair and watched, Gura and the other children sitting silently around her. The remaining Minas Tirith garrison lined the outer wall of the city, and behind them stood the wounded who could stand, and the old who had been left behind.

But so far, no attack was coming. For a while, the shadow kept growing and growing steadily. Then Gura gasped sharply and stepped closer to Tíniel. The shadow shot up into a huge, rearing pillar.

"Is it happening, Khondyë?" she breathed.

Tíniel didn't reply, but only stared as the shadow grew bigger and bigger, many times vaster than anything she had ever seen. She could hear distant cries as people in the city witnessed the same thing.

The shadow billowed upwards in a great, dark pillar until suddenly it began taking shape. Two arms separated from its side, and the top part shifted and morphed into something resembling a helm.

"Mekakhond," Tíniel whispered. "It is him."

But terrible and terrifying as it was, it began to reel and recoil as though it was being struck. Blow after invisible blow was dealt, and everyone held their breath, their eyes glued to it. Suddenly, a bolt of red lightning ran through the shadow-man, and its movement ceased. Then, silently and gently, the shadow was blown away by a gentle breeze.

In the utter silence that followed, a bird began to sing.

* * *

 **This was another whopping downer of a chapter, but you know that Tíniel gets moody and down on life like that sometimes, don't you? But the future is looking brighter; the Enemy is defeated, hope is returning. That does _not_ mean that there will be no more angst, though. Don't be ridiculous. Where would I be without it?**

 **Review, review, review, pretty please – I have nothing better to do with my time than to read them.** **And of course, enormous quantities of love to all my reviewers for last chapter: you brighten my iso, you beautify my quarantine, you enliven my loneliness. The next chapter will come all the sooner for you, my darlings.**

 **Review of the week this time goes to Tibblets, who – you bloody ripper – was absolutely right! Good on ya!**

 **Okey doke, it's nearly lunch time in Straya and I'm hungry, so I'll catch you all later. Review and I'll post the next chapter sooner ;)**

 **S**


	42. The Return of the King

**42 – THE RETURN OF THE KING**

* * *

It was over. It was all over, and she was alive.

First there was doubt in Minas Tirith. The disappearance of the shadow could be temporary, people argued. It could be hiding in ambush, regathering its strength. But as the hours passed and the mountains in the East were bathed with afternoon sun, slow smiles began to spread over their faces.

In the evening, huge flocks of birds flew overhead back to Ithilien, seeming to sense that the evil was gone. The children around Tíniel stared up with open mouths, and then looked back at her, their eyes wide, unsure of what they had seen.

"It is over," she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. "It is over, little ones, and we are free!"

They began shrieking with joy, jumping up and down, shouting and singing Khandi victory songs with wild exuberance.

Tíniel sat there in silence, her eyes still fixed on Mordor, tears dripping down her cheeks and a smile fixed on her face. It was all over, and she was alive.

* * *

Messengers were sent to bring back the women and children who had evacuated before the siege. The remaining army was put to work rebuilding the city as best they could for the return of the king.

Tíniel spoke of her doubts to no one, but she couldn't celebrate until she knew who had survived. What if Tcharum was dead? What about Harûk, Mahaya and Remuil, and the rest of the _Haedannen_? Had Merry and Pippin survived? Had Legolas and Gimli?

Of course, the one she worried about most was Aragorn. She'd been hopeful at first, but as the days wore on, she began to despair. If he was alive, why didn't she dream with him at night? Why didn't the gods send her a sign as they had before?

"And why have they not returned yet?" she said to Anita. She was in the Houses of Healing, watching from her wheelchair while Anita made a foul-smelling poultice. The Healers had been busy preparing for the wounded to return, making up beds and rolling bandages. "This is longer than they took to march out, and surely they would be eager to get home."

"Because… I don't know," Anita sighed, brushing hair out of her face. "They're probably chasing orcs, or cleaning Mordor out, or… or sitting in a field making daisy-chains."

"Ha-ha," Tíniel said. "Not funny."

"Well how would I know whether or not they've returned?" Anita asked in exasperation. "I know as much and as little as you."

"Sorry," Tíniel huffed. "Sorry. I'm never good at waiting for people to come back."

"I know," the other woman replied wryly. "Remember when the Steward's sons went to Osgiliath? You were terrible."

"I'm always terrible. It just becomes more pronounced at certain moments."

"Well, I can't argue with that."

There was a silence for approximately three seconds while Anita kept working. Then Tíniel sighed. "I just think –"

"Tíniel! Shut up!"

"Right. Sorry."

"By the stars, you're annoying."

"I _know_. It would help a great deal if I could get out of this damned chair, but I can't."

Anita paused in her work and looked at her thoughtfully. "I've been wondering about that actually," she said. "Beregond once hurt his shoulder in training, and his arm didn't work properly afterwards. They said it never would again. But I began massaging the muscles and working at it so that it would begin moving again afterwards."

Tíniel stared at her. "I never noticed a default in either of his arms," she said slowly, barely daring to hope. "So, he… he has full use of it now?"

"He does," Anita confirmed. "Listen though, I cannot promise that you'll be like before. I cannot promise anything, actually. But don't you think it's worth a try?"

"Yes," Tíniel almost shouted. "Yes! Yes, I do. When could we start? How long will it take?"

"It'll take months, if not years, I guess," Anita said. "And you might not like me very much while it's going on. But come to my place tonight, and we'll make a start."

The 'start' was incredibly painful. Anita felt up and down her spine, pressing gently to feel what had gone wrong. She made various 'hmm' sounds, and tutted as she went.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Tíniel grunted, her voice muffled because she was lying on her face. "Is that good or bad? Ow!"

"Well, it isn't great," Anita said. "But it might be salvageable."

"I have – _ow!_ – broken ribs, you know! Be gentle!"

"Gentle won't help you," Anita chastised.

"You take pleasure from this, don't you? You're a sick, sadistic – ow, Anita!"

"Don't bite your tongue. This is going to hurt."

* * *

The next day, Tíniel could sit fully upright with a lot less pain. It felt like a victory, even if it was small.

That afternoon, a messenger came galloping across the Pelennor fields. The people of Minas Tirith lined the walls as he drew closer, and children ran through the streets after him. At last he reached the citadel and dismounted, panting. Tíniel was waiting for him there with the now inseparable Faramir and Éowyn.

"My lord," he said, bowing to them. "My ladies."

"Hirgon!" Faramir said, grinning from ear to ear. "You are alive!"

Hirgon returned the grin. "Indeed I am, lord Faramir," he said. "Quite a few of us are, in fact."

"So it is true," Éowyn breathed. "The battle was won?"

"It was, lady," Hirgon said. "It was a strange victory, but certainly not unwelcome! But that story will be told again and again when they all return."

"What about Aragorn?" Tíniel burst out, unable to contain the question any longer. "The captain from the North? Did he survive?"

"He did, lady Tíniel," Hirgon said. His eyes flickered uncertainly over the wheelchair, but in her relief, she didn't see him looking.

"What is the message you are to bring?" Faramir asked.

"The battle is won," the soldier announced proudly. "The army is camped in Ithilien on what is now called the fields of Cormallon. There they tend to their wounded, gather their forces and take their rest. They will prepare to leave in a few days."

"A few days?" Tíniel exclaimed. "What under the stars are they waiting for?"

"Many are injured," Hirgon shrugged. "I suppose they are waiting until they are well enough to be moved. I was told only the message, not the reasoning behind it."

"That's alright," Faramir said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Take some rest, my friend. You deserve it well enough!"

Hirgon bowed, grinned, and went away.

"So," Faramir said. "A week, perhaps more, before they return."

"That should be plenty of time to prepare the city for the return of the king," Éowyn said thoughtfully. "The rebuilding is going well, the birds are returning, and the gardens are flowering again."

"They expect me to wait a whole _week_?" Tíniel asked incredulously. Faramir rolled his eyes.

"Take up knitting," he said. "You'll be fine."

"I have a broken arm, you bastard," she muttered, ignoring his grin.

* * *

That week lasted an age for Tíniel. She spent time with her tribe and with her friends. She oversaw some of the rebuilding, and every night she went to Anita, who would work with her on trying to get her to stand. Many of the evacuees had returned to their homes, so Minas Tirith had begun to feel like its old self.

But with them came lords and ladies of Gondor.

"Remind me who is coming today?" Tíniel asked, staring moodily at the dead white tree.

"My cousin from Dol Amroth," Faramir answered. "Can you at least _try_ a smile?" She bared her teeth at him, and he rolled his eyes. "Five-year-old."

"Why do I need to be here to receive these people anyway?" she went on, sighing heavily and looking back to the tree. "Who am I to them? Can't you do this by yourself? Isn't this your job?"

"You're a war hero at the very least," Éowyn said, the picture of regal grace with her hands folded in front of her pristine white gown. Tíniel felt shabby in the too-big Khandi tunic they'd found to replace her other one.

"You are a respected leader of Gondor," Faramir said. "And it will do no small amount of good for these dignitaries to meet the Khandi chief before they start spreading stupid rumours."

"You mean like when that lord from Lebennin started telling people that we were cannibals who fed only on white flesh?" Tíniel asked. "Alright. Fair point."

"Here they come!" Éowyn said, and Tíniel looked ahead. Rounding the corner was a party of seven, all dressed in the dark blue of Dol Amroth. At their head was a beautiful, dark-haired woman.

"What's her name again?" Tíniel whispered.

"Lothíriel," Faramir hissed back. "Now shut up and look important."

Tíniel studied the woman as she drew closer and curtsied gracefully. She had sharp, dark blue eyes, and strong cheekbones that reminded Tíniel of Prince Imrahil.

"Cousin," she said to Faramir, smiling sweetly. "How good it is to see you again. You have been well?"

"Better than I was," Faramir answered, kissing her hand. "You grow ever more beautiful."

"And you more dashing. You are still unbetrothed, I gather?"

Tíniel's eyes widened slightly and she made a conscious effort not to look over at Éowyn.

"Uh, yes," Faramir said awkwardly. "May I present Lady Éowyn of Rohan, and Lady Tíniel of Khand."

"An honour to make your acquaintance, my ladies," Lothíriel said, and she and all her party bowed.

"If you please," Faramir went on stiffly, "a servant will show your party to their quarters."

Lothíriel nodded to gracefully to the men and ladies in waiting behind her, and they all filed away. The second they were out of earshot, she turned back to Faramir, a wide grin spreading across her face. "I was lying before. You're even uglier than I remember."

"And your likeness grows ever closer to that of a cave-troll," he replied happily. She laughed and threw her arms around him.

"I really missed you." She drew back quickly, her face suddenly grave. "I heard about Boromir and Valar, I'm so sorry. I always thought he would be the last of us to go, but now…"

Tíniel felt the familiar tears sting the back of her eyes as Faramir shook his head. "At least we will have the time to honour him properly after this victory," he said. "But for now, let us speak of happier things. You've met Éowyn, niece of Théoden King."

"And sister of the new king of Rohan," Lothíriel said, grinning and holding out a hand to shake. "Well met. I'm sorry about your uncle."

"Don't be," Éowyn said. "He died a glorious death."

"And this is Tíniel, the chief of the Maruvikh tribe who have fought with us these past few weeks. Oh, and my adopted sister."

"There's a story there, no doubt," Lothíriel said, shaking Tíniel's hand. "I can see the resemblance. You look exactly like my uncle Denethor."

Tíniel snorted. "So I've been told many a time," she said. "That little show of propriety that you two put on had me confused. I didn't think it possible for Faramir to be related to an actual polite person."

Lothíriel snorted. "Well, to my mother's chagrin, I am far from polite. Why are you in a chair?"

"My cousin likes sticking her nose in everyone else's business," Faramir muttered. "Lothíriel, couldn't you have waited five minutes before you started making people hate you?"

"It's alright," Tíniel said. "I broke… well, a lot of things in the battle for Minas Tirith. I struggle to walk at the moment. And stand." She forced her voice to remain cheerful and even.

"If it makes you feel any better, you still look very dignified sitting down," Lothíriel said gravely.

"A dignified sack of potatoes," Faramir agreed solemnly.

"Would you stop with the potato thing?" Tíniel said crossly.

"He's right though," Éowyn mused. "If ever a sack of potatoes were to acquire gravitas, it would look exactly like you in your wheelchair."

Lothíriel snickered. "I like her," she said, nodding at Éowyn. "Now. Where's the new king and all that?"

* * *

Two days later, Lothíriel had firmly established herself as likeable, trustworthy, and – somehow simultaneously – a complete nightmare to be around. Tíniel sat at the wall of the seventh circle, looking out over the plain. Today was the day that the army would come home.

"We've been here for _hours,_ " Lothíriel sighed. "Can they not march faster? Have they no regard for us?"

"None at all for you," Éowyn muttered. "Be patient and they'll be here soon enough. They've been sending messengers every day."

"But when will they _be_ here?" Lothíriel groaned.

Tíniel shifted in her chair. She felt as impatient as Lothíriel. She couldn't sit still, and for the millionth time, she scanned the empty grasslands below. But somehow having someone to comfort made the waiting more bearable.

"Do you see that copse of trees?" she said, pointing East-North-East. "They'll come around a bend in the road around it, and we'll be able to see them. So keep watching there."

"I don't want to watch," Lothíriel snapped, jumping up onto the stone railing that separated them from a fall of more than forty feet and balancing along it, her arms spread wide. "I want them to hurry up."

"Get down!" Éowyn told her, watching anxiously. "They'll be here before you know it, and the last thing we want is to have to tell Imrahil that his daughter fell to her death minutes before he arrived."

"Ha! Father wouldn't be surprised. It's my mother you need to worry about."

"Is that why you behave in front of your ladies' maids?" Tíniel asked, tearing her eyes away from the copse to look curiously at the still balancing princess. "To please your mother?"

"Right on," Lothíriel said, jumping lightly down and sighing. "She's always scolding me, always shouting about how I should be a lady and not a savage… no offence intended," she added, nodding at Tíniel, who wrinkled her nose. "So she specially chooses my servants to spy on me and report to her."

"That sounds dramatic," Tíniel muttered, looking back out to the faraway trees.

"Oh, not for her, I assure you," Lothíriel said venomously. "It's a nightmare to live with her! I shall never live up to her standards. I have given up trying. She is never _angry_ , she's just –"

"Just disappointed," Éowyn cut in, nodding wisely. "I know the type."

"Well, we all disappoint our parents," Tíniel said. "What else are girls born for?"

"Not me," Éowyn said cheerfully. "Mine are dead."

"Little ray of sunshine, you are," Lothíriel muttered.

"But you are right, Tíniel," Éowyn went on. "Girls win praise only for their looks, while boys are valued for what is in their heads."

"Not so in Khand," Tíniel interjected. "Since the birth of our tribes, women have been leaders and fighters."

"Until they have a child," Éowyn argued. "Then they are reduced to their wombs, reduced to the task of cooking and cleaning while the men, be they fathers or no, continue to fight and lead."

"Such is the fate of all women," Lothíriel lamented, scuffing her silken slippers in the dust mournfully.

"Then let's change it," Tíniel said. Both Éowyn and Lothíriel looked up at her and snorted.

"And how do you propose to do that?" Éowyn asked.

"Well, we are leaders," Tíniel said. "Sister of a king, daughter of a prince and a chief. We can sit here all we like and talk about it, but we also have real power to do something."

"As soon as I suggest anything to my brother, he will laugh it down," Éowyn said. "It isn't as easy as you say."

"You wanted to fight in the battle of the Pelennor, and they told you that you couldn't," Tíniel said. "And what did you do? You fought anyway, and won yourself renown beyond that of most men in Rohan. That's what I'm suggesting."

"And what are _you_ going to do to change things, hm?" Lothíriel asked, cocking an eyebrow at Tíniel. "Words are grand, but actions are harder to make."

"Change the laws, I suppose," Tíniel said. "Marriage and motherhood will make no difference. If a woman wants to fight, she'll fight." She grimaced a little. It was no small thing to change the law. She didn't even know if it was possible. The _bamyë_ had already accepted the fact that she was a _khaviga._ Would they be willing to make more concessions?

"And you, Lothíriel?" Éowyn was asking. "What will you do?"

The young woman sighed. "I do not know. I am to marry some old, fat lord from Lebennin in a few months' time. I've only met him twice, but it is a suitable match. And then I suppose I shall fade into my role as a good wife and never bother anyone again."

She looked genuinely morose, and Tíniel felt a stab of pity. "I don't believe that you'd ever shut up long enough to become a good wife," she said. Lothíriel frowned.

"Well, I will."

"No, you won't."

"I could if I wanted to."

"Could not."

"I most certainly _could!_ "

"They're here!" Éowyn exclaimed.

"Yes, I could – wait, what?"

Lothíriel and Tíniel both craned their necks, and in moments they saw what Éowyn had seen. The host was rounding the copse, the sun glinting off their helms and the tips of their spears. Tíniel could see flashes of blue on banners that were toyed with by the breeze. She caught her breath; they were here.

"Would someone push me to the first circle?" she asked, the excitement clear in her voice.

"I will!" Lothíriel said eagerly, and nearly upended the whole chair.

"Thank you for offering," Tíniel said, gripping the arms so hard that her knuckles went pale. "But… Éowyn?"

* * *

They finally arrived. Aragorn had been riding at the head of the procession, the standard of the king shining in early afternoon sunlight. He had felt relief when the war had ended, and some small peace, but that shattered now. Now he was to fulfil his destiny. He felt like turning around and galloping back to Mordor.

He held up a hand when they came within a hundred yards of the walls. The army ground to a halt.

"Aren't we going in?" Frodo asked from his pony beside Aragorn.

"Soon,' he replied. "But there is a little more waiting to do first. I must stay outside the city for a while."

"Why so, Strider?" Sam asked. "I thought you'd be as keen as the rest of us for a proper hot bath and cotton sheets."

"I shall have them brought for you, Sam," he said, hiding his smile. "But it would not be proper for the king to simply ride into the city. There are ways that things need to be done, traditions we must observe." Understanding and awe dawned on the hobbits' faces, and he smiled. "I was with you at the beginning of your adventure," he said. "It is fitting that you are both here for the end of mine."

"This isn't the end of your adventure, not by a long way," Sam said. "This is just the beginning!"

Aragorn glanced back at the city walls, and his jaw tightened. "Well, there may yet be a battle to fight for me," he said darkly.

He nodded over the hobbits' heads at Imrahil, who smiled back and began leading the Gondorian troops into Minas Tirith. The cheering was tremendous. Aragorn watched, the faint smile creeping back onto his face.

Despite himself, he began to feel excited. He'd fought against unbelievable odds for this, and he'd won. There was a tremendous task ahead of him, the same one that had always been ahead of him, but this time he could pour all his energy into it.

He dismounted and patted his horse on the nose. Halbarad approached him, grinning and shaking his head.

"So, here we are."

"Here we are."

"Did you ever think we'd make it?"

"Not in the slightest," Aragorn said wryly. "And yet… here we are."

"You don't want to go in yet?" Halbarad asked.

He shook his head. "No. Set up tents for the Grey Company outside the walls. Fly all the banners we have and post a four-man guard. It's time to put on a show."

"As you say," Halbarad replied. He clapped Aragorn on the shoulder and went away.

It was time for the Khandi tribe to enter the city, but for some reason, they were unmoving. The entire march home, they had been singing joyous victory songs in their language, but now they were utterly silent. Aragorn slowly stepped forward, watching them with a frown. Something was wrong.

Then he saw her. Éowyn wheeled the chair into the empty gateway, then walked back out of sight, leaving Tíniel sitting alone before her army of thousands. Her eyes flicked over him, and he felt his heart lurch, but she looked away just as quickly. And then she stood.

He could see the effort it cost her, the suppressed pain beneath the stony mask on her face. But she stood, gripping the arms of the chair and pushing herself upwards. She took one step forward, and then a second one.

And then she began to speak.

* * *

Tíniel stood before her people, silent. She looked down at them, arrayed on the plain before her. None of them would meet her eyes. No one made a sound, and she could feel the gaze of the old and young that had been left behind, standing up on the walls behind her and looking down at the scene.

She felt her legs begin to tremble with the strain of standing, and she decided the silence had gone on long enough.

"Look at me," she said, her voice loud enough to carry. There was a ripple of heads rising, and the gazes of her tribespeople met hers. She looked down at Tcharum, who stood before all of them. The guilt was written plainly in his face, but he said nothing.

"You know what you have done," she said simply. She could hear the cold bitterness in her own voice. "You have made yourselves _khaviga!_ "

They remained silent, but at her final word, some among them beat their breasts with remorse. Tíniel took one more agonising step forward, and her face twisted into a grimace. "You have betrayed me!" she shouted. "Each and every one of you who left. Each and every one who stayed behind. A Khondyë with no _bamyë,_ with no _khopyë_ , is nothing! You have made me _nothing_!"

There was utter silence. Tíniel breathed rapidly, trying to ignore the tremors of pain that ran through her body. At last, Tcharum walked forward and faced the _bamyë_ with her.

"We all made our decision to betray our Khondyë," he said, his voice thick. "We made ourselves _khaviga._ And the penalty for betrayal is death." He paused and drew in a deep breath. "But I was your leader."

He unsheathed his _mithiri_ and handed it to Tíniel. Then he knelt before her and removed his _vadi_ from around his head. "Let justice be done," he said.

A murmur went up from the Gondorians watching the scene as Tíniel placed the curved sword to her brother's neck. He stiffened, but his gaze remained resolute.

"It is only right, sister," he said, only loud enough for her to hear. "The Law is above all else."

She stared down at him. "You are right," she whispered back. "But over these past few years, I have come to be of the opinion that our Laws have forgotten about love." She raised the sword high as if to bring it down on his head, but then she dropped it in the dust.

"Betrayal for betrayal," she said, raising her voice again to be heard. "I escaped punishment once, and so you all shall too."

Hundreds of heads raised. Cautious hope flickered in hundreds of faces, and Tíniel smiled slightly. "Sing our songs again!" she called. "You have done great deeds and returned victorious! Smile, be triumphant, for we are free for the first time in all of our lives!"

Tcharum got to his feet and took her hand, raising it into the air. " _Khuma Tchakhura Khondyë!"_ he bellowed. The answering cry was like thunder rolling from a storm.

" _Khuma Tchakhura Khondyë!"_

Drawing in a deep breath, she began to sing. The _bamyë_ swiftly joined in, and they began to enter the city. They parted around the twins standing in the gateway, saluting as they passed.

Tíniel reached out to hold onto Tcharum. "My chair, brother?"

"Of course," he said, and lifted her into the chair a short distance away. "I should have known better than to think you'd go through with it."

"You certainly should. The day I do things the way they should be done will be a strange day indeed."

"Where are we off to this time?"

"Second circle," she said, relaxing back into the chair.

"Are you sure? It's just…" He hesitated. "You haven't spoken to Aragorn yet."

She didn't meet his eyes. "Nor will I. Let's go."

"Tchakhura, you can't forgive your tribe for leaving you behind and continue to blame him."

"It isn't just that," she said quietly. "There are other reasons I would rather not see him. it makes things easier for both of us. Now, let us go."

Tcharum pursed his lips and pulled his _vadi_ back up over his hair. "As you say, then."

* * *

She disappeared in the swarm of people moving into the city. Aragorn stood there, waiting for the crowds to subside, hoping she would still be there, sitting in the gateway. But she was gone. His face fell.

"Aragorn!" came a call, and he looked over quickly. It was Faramir, smiling broadly, and Éowyn beside him.

"You're looking a fair sight better than when I last saw you!" Aragorn said, clasping his hand and returning the smile. "And you as well, my lady."

"We're glad you're back,'"she said warmly. Aragorn's eyes flicked down to see her arm in Faramir's, and he frowned slightly before shaking it off. A question for another time, he decided.

"I cannot stay for long," Faramir said. "As the Steward, I shall not meet the King until he enters the city. But I thought I could come relatively unseen for now, in the chaos."

"Is there something urgent, then?" Aragorn asked. "Why have you come?"

"Just to bypass the messengers," Faramir said. "Is there anything that needs to be done before you enter the city?"

"I trust your judgement," Aragorn said. "Do things as you see fit. But a date will need to be set for the coronation, perhaps in a few weeks to allow time for people to travel to Gondor. That will be the day that I enter the city."

"It shall be done, then," Faramir said. "And preparations made for the biggest party Middle-earth has seen for a hundred years. It's good to speak with you, Aragorn. And I'll see you – properly see you – soon."

"Wait," Aragorn said suddenly. "Before you go… have you spoken with Tíniel?"

Faramir and Éowyn exchanged an unreadable glance before Éowyn replied. "We spoke with her just after she woke," she said. "And we have both spent time with her since."

"And…" he cleared his throat. "How is she?"

There was a long pause, and then Faramir answered. "We thought she was going to be angrier when she realised that she'd been left behind," he said. "And she was, of course. For a few minutes she was furious. But then she was more distraught."

"She was just… broken," Éowyn said quietly. "I never saw a person in more distress than she, that night. She wasn't herself for a long time afterwards. I don't know if she is yet, even now."

"And has she spoken of me at all?" Aragorn asked, abandoning all attempts at subtlety.

Éowyn shook her head. "Not once that I have heard of," she said. "I am sorry."

He nodded, a little too quickly. "Well, thank you," he said. "I should let you get back before you're seen by someone who cares."

"Right," said Faramir, looking worried. "Right. Well, if you ever need anything…" he shrugged awkwardly and patted Aragorn on the shoulder.

Aragorn looked back to the gates as they left, the hollowness in his chest quickly being replaced with determination. Well, he thought, it had never been easy with Tíniel. But he wasn't going to give up now.

* * *

 **I promised an earlier update in exchange for reviews, and we hit 300 (!) so I felt obliged. Thank you all so much for reading – reviewers and quiet readers alike!**

 **In response to a few of you – pineapple-pancake, without angst I would be nothing, so you'll have to deal with it for a bit longer sorry! Pyo-Kiyo, your questions concerning Petakh will soon be answered... LH Wordsmith, your conjecture makes me smile. Elemmire98 – I was so touched! Thank you choirbandgeek, Diarona, Anna Maria, MairiMcKennaO'Brian, Lady Istalri, Fox out of Time, Komakipureblood and guests for all being bloody rippers.**

 **I also wanted to say: yes, the story is coming to a close, and yes that's sad – but it's also exciting, because there's another story coming very soon! It's going to be a bit shorter and a bit more of a nail-biter (if I do it right!), so if you haven't already, follow my profile so that you can have a read when it goes up.**

 **Review, review, review and I'll have the next chapter up in no time!**

 **S**


	43. Becoming Free

**43 – BECOMING FREE**

* * *

Days passed. All the refugees that had fled the city were returned. Minas Tirith was buzzing, and Tíniel had never seen it more joyous.

She barely got to see Faramir, since he was busy running the kingdom, but she didn't mind. She was kept busy herself, trying to find lodgings for her people, space for their wounded and burning for their dead.

The tribe seemed to embrace her all the more after the pardoning at the gates, so they were content to stay where she was. But that didn't mean that they fit in at all in Minas Tirith. Barely any of them spoke Westron, and most still couldn't stand being inside buildings.

"What do you plan, sister?" Tcharum asked one morning as they sat together.

"Well, we can't stay," she said. "That much is plain. But we should at least stay until the coronation, which is in a few weeks. We've been here for all the fighting; it would send a bad message if we weren't there for the celebrations."

"Fair enough," he sighed. "But I will be glad to see the open sky again. We've been in this stone city a long time."

"I know," she mused. "We need more room. We need to go home."

"The second circle will do for now," he said. "But the knowledge that you plan for us to return might make the stay more bearable. We should tell the _bamyë_."

His face was filled with a kind of quiet relief, and Tíniel watched him with curiosity. "You miss it, don't you?" she asked. "The desert. Khand."

"Of course," he said. "The North… it is strange, and beautiful in some places. But our home has an untameable wildness to it. Here, men are the master of the land, but we… we count ourselves lucky to tread gently on the sand. I miss it, more than I imagined I would. Don't you?"

"I did," she said slowly. "For a long, long time I yearned for nothing else but to go home. Now…" she shrugged. "I don't know."

"You'll see," he said. "We'll get back, and it'll be like we never left."

"No, it won't," she said. "We've lost too many for that."

There was a silence, and they both thought of Borund. "Gods carry them gently," Tcharum said at last.

"I've been meaning to ask you," she said quietly. "But I didn't really want to know the answer."

"The answer to what?"

"Where is Petakh?"

Tcharum looked down, his fingers twisting around each other. "Dead," he said. "She wanted to come, so I didn't stop her. She was killed by Haradrim, in the last moments of the battle. Her husband is dead too."

Tíniel looked down at her hands. She had known it when the army had returned, but she still felt the twist in her chest. "I hope it's worth it," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"All this death," she said. "Everything we have lost. If we go home, and in fifty years Gondor begins their attacks again…" she shook her head. "What will it all have been for?"

"They won't," he said firmly. "You'll make sure of it. Our people know each other now. We understand their language, understand their ways a little more. It won't be like before. It wasn't all for nothing."

The girl Gura ran up breathlessly and saluted. " _Khuma Khondyë!_ " she panted. "There is a Northman outside to see you!"

Tíniel looked over at Tcharum, and he shrugged. "Don't look at me, I don't know who it is. But I do have things to do. I'll leave you to the mercies of whoever has come."

Tíniel almost asked him to stay, just in case it was the one person she didn't want to see. But as she spotted the familiar blonde-haired Elf weaving his way through people toward her, she relaxed.

"Legolas of Mirkwood," she said, smiling in welcome.

"Tíniel of Khand."

"How are you?"

"Better and worse than I have ever been," he said, sitting in Tcharum's vacated chair.

"Do Elves ever answer anything?"

"Elves are renowned for their wisdom," he replied, flashing a rare grin.

"Very funny," she said. "How has the sea-longing been?"

"It continues to grow stronger. But I finally told Aragorn and Gimli about it."

"That is good. They ought to know."

"Yes. It has made it fractionally easier, now that people know," he said. "But I did not come to speak of that."

"I don't suppose you came to see me just because you love me?"

He snorted. "Do you think so little of me?"

"Well, Aragorn has used you as his messenger before. Do you remember when we first met, in Imladris?"

"I remember it well," he said, and gave a smile tinged with guilt. "And… you are right. Aragorn asked me to come."

"Then I will tell you what I told you last time: he can do his own dirty work."

"You know very well that he cannot come into the city," Legolas chided her, growing serious. "So why have you not been down to see him?"

"I don't wish to discuss it," she said shortly. "With you or with anyone."

He blinked slowly a few times, and Tíniel could tell he was trying not to give her a piece of his mind. She was glad of it.

"Alright," he said at last. "If you will not come to see him, come to see the rest of us. You are missed."

"Who is _us_?" she asked.

"The Fellowship," he said. "We know you are busy with your duties here, and we understand – but you are missed, Tíniel."

She looked down at her hands, debating it in her mind. If she didn't know better, she would think it a ruse to make her speak to Aragorn. But Legolas had never been underhanded, and she did miss her friends. Could it really hurt just to be near him for a little while?

"Very well," she conceded at last. "You win this round. I will come."

Legolas leapt to his feet. "Good!" he said. "Let's go!"

"Wait, now?" she yelped as he came around behind her and started pushing the chair at an alarming speed.

"Why not?" he asked cheerfully, and she groaned.

"Fine. It isn't as though I have any choice in the matter."

"That's the spirit!"

"Legolas?"

"Hm?"

"I'm glad you're my friend, but you're very difficult to be around."

"Thank you."

* * *

There were several tents set up outside the city gates, all manned by soldiers in silver armour and grey cloaks. Tíniel recognised them as the Dunedain. Banners decorated with stars and trees fluttered in the gentle breeze.

"Impressive," she murmured.

"It is, isn't it?" came a voice. She looked over and saw Elrohir – or Elladan – strolling toward them.

"It's rude to eavesdrop," she said, not bothering to hide her grin.

"Well, don't speak so loudly then," Legolas said. "Hello, Elrohir."

"Legolas," the other Elf said, nodding. Tíniel briefly wondered how Legolas could tell Elrohir and his brother apart.

"Welcome back," she said instead. "You and your brother made it through the battle?"

"Unscathed," he said, nodding. "You look better than when last I saw you."

"I've been healing," she said. "I'll be well enough to make the journey home soon, I hope."

She felt Legolas stiffen ever so slightly behind her, but Elrohir didn't react. "Let us hope it isn't too soon," he replied. "I suppose you are looking for the Fellowship. They are over yonder, by the fire."

Legolas pushed her in that direction, suspiciously quiet.

"I have to go, you know," she said, feeling the urge to break the loaded silence. "I would stay in the North with you, but I have a duty to uphold. I need to be with my people."

"It isn't me that I wish you would stay for," he replied. "But we should not speak of it now. We are arrived."

He pushed her between a gap between two tents and into a little clearing between them. There was a fire smouldering in the centre, and around it was the Fellowship. Legolas said nothing, waiting for her to be the one to break the peace, but for a moment she just watched them.

Merry and Pippin were lying with their heads together, looking up at the clouds and trying to make lewd shapes out of them. Frodo and Sam sat together in silence, staring into the glowing embers of the fire. Gimli was discussing the Lonely Mountain with Gandalf, who was nodding along with a knowing twinkle in his eye. Aragorn was lying down, his head resting on a log, his long legs stretched out before him. His eyes were half closed, and he was smoking his pipe.

She felt a stab of relief at the sight of him. He was alright, really alright.

"I'm here," she said quietly, and it was though a stone had been thrown into still water. Gimli and Gandalf looked up. Aragorn sat upright, and Merry and Pippin leapt up and raced over. Sam and Frodo quickly followed suit, and the four of them crowded around her, asking how she was and why she hadn't come sooner.

"What kind of strange wheelbarrow is this?" Sam asked curiously.

"You should have seen me in the battle at the Black Gates," Pippin said earnestly. "I was nearly crushed by a troll."

"And by confounded good luck, I was there to fish him out from underneath," Gimli chuckled from over by Gandalf.

"We didn't know what to think when you disappeared without a word in Ithilien," Frodo said. "Faramir didn't tell us where you'd gone."

"Can't you walk yet?" Merry frowned. "Will it take very long?"

"And I killed about seventeen orcs, I think –"

"It's not a barrow, Sam, it's a chair –"

"Merry rode a _horse_ –"

"You're brother's very friendly, by the way, we quite like him –"

"Ow, don't step on my foot, Pip!"

"You should have seen when I –"

"Alright!" Gandalf called out. "Alright! You've said your pieces, now give the poor girl a minute to breathe!" They all took a few steps back, Pippin looking disappointed.

"It's alright, Pippin," Tíniel said, grinning. "We have plenty of time these days. You can tell me the whole story of your battle later. And you, Frodo and Sam, must tell me everything of your journey."

Sam glanced sidelong at Frodo, whose face fell a little. She noticed this, but decided not to comment.

"Gimli, Gandalf. Good to see you. And you, Aragorn." She glanced over at him quickly. He was watching her closely with his unreadable grey eyes.

"Tíniel," Gandalf said. "I am sorry you could not be with us during the battle."

She gave him a hard look. "No, you aren't."

The lines around the corners of his eyes deepened as he smiled, and he drew out his pipe and started cleaning it.

"Well," Gimli said, sighing and settling back. "Here we are. All together at last."

"Not quite all together," Merry said. "I miss Boromir." Tíniel felt the usual pang of grief, but here among the Fellowship, it wasn't as strong as it was before.

"We all miss him, Merry," Aragorn said quietly.

"Well, it's the rest of the Fellowship, at any rate," Pippin said. "Tíniel, I officially name you an honorary member, since you were with us for the last part of our journey."

"Tíniel will not be with us for long either," Legolas spoke up, moving around to stand beside her and shooting her a look. "Tíniel means to go back to Khand."

Tíniel glared at him. "Everyone will be going home," she said shortly. "It is hardly a revelation."

"Back to Khand?" Frodo asked, looking confused. "But… why?"

"Because it is my home. I can't live here forever."

"We thought you were going to stay here in the city and marry Strider and live happily ever after," Sam said, looking crestfallen. Pippin nodded in agreement.

Tíniel felt cold dread seeping into her. "What? Of course not. We were never going to get married!"

"Well why not?" Gimli asked, raising an eyebrow.

She avoided looking at Aragorn. "Because it would be ridiculous. I live in Khand and he lives in Gondor. And besides, he is to be king. Can you imagine the people of the North welcoming a Khandi woman as their queen?"

"But they love you here," Legolas said, a note of pleading in his voice.

Her glare grew sharper, and he fell silent. "This is why I didn't want to come," she said in a low voice.

Frodo frowned. "But we thought –"

'Aragorn and I wouldn't do well married," she cut him off, feeling her frustration grow. She looked over at Aragorn and let her bitterness leak in. "He would do much better to find a woman who does what she's told, so he doesn't need to feed her potions to make her behave."

"That was spiteful," Aragorn said in a low voice, speaking up for the first time.

"I think this is a conversation best had without listeners," Gandalf said, getting to his feet. "Come now, everyone."

"I think this is a conversation best not had at all," Tíniel said quickly, trying to grab Legolas' hand to stop him leaving. But with surprising strength, he pried his and from her grip and left with the others. There was a long silence.

"Go on," Aragorn said, still quietly, getting to his feet. "I know you have things to say."

She drew in a deep breath and tried to clear her thoughts. "I was not just angry," she said. "I was furious."

"I knew you would be."

"And yet you did it anyway."

"And I would do it again, Tíniel," he said evenly. "I don't regret it."

"You didn't trust me," she said, raising her eyes to meet his at last. "You didn't trust me, so you just betrayed me."

He sighed. "You would have done the same if our situations were reversed."

She shook her head. "That's the thing, Aragorn. I don't know that I would have." He frowned slightly and she went on, her voice growing unsteadily. "I don't think you understand what betrayal means in my culture, what it means to me. There is nothing worse you could have done, nothing that could have hurt me more."

At this, he flinched, but still he said nothing. She drew in a shaking breath trying to calm down. "But," she said, "you were right. I thought we were going to lose, and if I'd gone to that battle, I wouldn't be here today. And I tried for days to be angry at you, but instead I was just afraid, afraid that you'd been hurt, or even died, and I…"

In a moment, Aragorn had crossed the small clearing, and he kissed her soundly. She returned it, relief flooding through her like she'd never felt before her. He pulled back, leaving his hand on her face.

"Am I forgiven?"

She sighed shakily, feeling an awful wrench in her chest. "Yes. But that is the last time."

"The last time what?"

"The last time we kiss, touch, anything. I meant what I said before."

He dropped his hand, staring at her. "About how we could not marry?"

She nodded, and he took a few unsteady steps back.

"Before I left, when we were speaking of it –"

"That was a dream, Aragorn, a fantasy."

"Right," he said, nodding slowly. "Right. And nothing will change your mind?"

"You know nothing will."

He sat back down on the ground where he'd been before and picked up his pipe. "Right."

"Aragorn," she said, a note of pleading creeping into her voice. "Please don't push me away because of this."

"Well, that's the problem," he said evenly, not looking at her. "You see, I don't know how to be around you without loving you."

"You think it isn't hard for me too?" she said angrily. "Do you think I'm doing this to hurt you?"

He looked up at her. "Are you?"

"Gods, no, you stupid man! I am doing it for duty! And it hurts, of course it hurts, but it is what must be!"

He stared at her. "So it was all for nothing then," he said sadly. "The dreams, the prophecy, all the pain it brought…"

"There was beauty too," she murmured. "You said so yourself. Maybe that was why it happened."

"Maybe," he said, and got up. "I should go. There are things I need to do."

"Well," she said. "It was good to see you again."

"And you," he replied, and strode out of the clearing. She sat there quietly, trying not to cry. With a trembling hand, she reached up and touched her lips. She could still feel the kiss, but it did little to mask the pain in her chest. So, that was how it ended.

"Why, hello there," said someone in Khandi, and her head jerked up.

"Akhund?" she said, her mouth falling open.

"The one and only, my dear," he said, sweeping off his hat and bowing dramatically. "How have you been?"

"Frankly, quite awful," she said. "And yourself?"

"Better every day!" he said. "And better still for seeing you! It's been what, five years?"

She eyed him darkly. "Yes."

"Now, now,' he said. "Don't say you still blame me for the whole prophecy debacle. Don't shoot the messenger; that's something they say here in the North."

"I know," she said. "I've lived in the North for some time now."

He smiled at her in a fatherly way. "I'm terribly proud of you, Tchakhura."

She dropped her eyes. "So, what have you been doing? Still going around ruining people's lives, or have you found a new hobby?"

"If fighting Mekakhond may be counted as a hobby, then yes. I've been rather busy, but the hard work has paid off."

She smiled slightly. "I suppose it has. But what are you doing here?"

He straightened his hat. "Well, as you know, my job is to look after the people of the East and South of Middle-earth."

She frowned. "I didn't really know that at all. I thought you just sort of went around trying to find people who would tolerate you."

"Well, right now that job requires me to be here in Minas Tirith," he said. "And if I'm lucky, I might find someone to take over that job for me so that I can go home."

Her frown deepened. "Right," she said slowly.

Akhund smiled with infuriating mysteriousness. "Well, it is always lovely to see you, my dear," he said. "But I'm afraid I have things to discuss, people to meet, a city to see. Let it not be long until we meet again!"

"I have no control over when we meet," Tíniel said grouchily. "It just happens when I least want it to."

Akhund shrugged happily and disappeared into the tents.

* * *

Akhund wasn't the only one who arrived for the coronation. It seemed the whole of Middle-earth had heard of the return of the King in the South, because people flocked to the city in droves. Every empty building was filled, and every inn was full to the brim. Horses were tethered in the gardens and the streets because there was no room in the stables. It was chaotic, noisy and joyful.

Galadriel and Celeborn arrived from Lothlórien along with a number of their people who had survived the fighting in the North. She smiled at Tíniel when they greeted each other, her eyes drifting down and warming when they alighted on the two _hamarakhi_ around her neck.

King Thranduil sent an envoy from Mirkwood with the hope that his son was alive and well, and the trust that he would represent their people adequately at the coronation of the new king.

Legolas' jaw tightened when he related this to Tíniel, and she narrowed her eyes.

"What?"

"What?"

"You have an opinion on this."

"I have an opinion on most things."

"What is it, then?"

He sighed. "My father should have come himself," he said. "But politics is his strength, and he has found a reason not to come."

"What do you mean?"

"Perhaps he does not want to grovel before a mortal man," Legolas said a little bitterly. "Or perhaps it is because of me."

"Because of you?"

"He told me to go to Rivendell and then return home to protect the wood," he said. "But I didn't return. I went with the Fellowship. Perhaps he thinks I should be the one to return to him, rather than him to me."

"That's ridiculous," she said, and he shrugged.

"Like I said. Politics."

"Well, I've met a few bad fathers in my time," she said. "And if it makes you feel any better, I've never seen you being… political."

"Not a very good prince, then," Legolas joked. She smiled.

"On the contrary, you are the best I've ever met."

She was kept busy with preparations for returning to Khand, but also with meeting Anita every night. Anita massaged, pressed and prodded, and forced Tíniel to try time and time again to stand and walk. Tíniel declared that Anita was in fact eviller than Sauron had ever been, but in truth, the sessions meant that she improved every day.

Anita allowed her to take her arm out of the sling too, and to start using it in small things. The muscles were stiff with disuse, and it hurt when she pushed it too far, but it felt good to have both her hands back.

Elrond arrived with a number of his people and the rest of the Rangers from the North. Tíniel met them with the rest of the Fellowship at the King's encampment outside the gates. Aragorn greeted them like family, and Tíniel watched with interest until Elrond came to stand before her.

"The lady Tíniel," he said, looking down at her. "Much has happened since we last met."

She wondered if all Elves were taught to state the obvious from a young age. "This is true," she acknowledged awkwardly.

"I would like to speak more of it with you, if you are able."

"I suppose you want to speak of the prophecy?" she asked. He nodded, and she sighed. "I would be happy to. But don't get your hopes up; it has all come to nothing, in the end."

"We shall see," he said. "Are you staying for the coronation?"

"We will stay until then," she replied, "but we will be gone soon after."

"Very well," he said. "We will meet again soon. But I will not keep you any longer now, for I think there are others who wish to speak to you."

She frowned. "Who…" she followed his gaze and saw Harûk trying and failing to subtly catch her attention by waving his arms about. Mahaya was next to him, rolling his eyes.

"I see," she said, trying to hold back her laughter. "Until next time then."

He smiled. "Until next time."

He walked gracefully away to greet Gimli, and Tíniel beckoned to her friends. They approached awkwardly, shooting wary glances at the other Elves who were gliding around.

"So these are Elves," Harûk muttered. "They seem very dramatic."

"They can also hear every word you say," Tíniel said with amusement, not bothering to lower her voice. "Remember Remuil's super hearing?"

An Elf beside them glanced over and smiled slightly, and Harûk scowled back. "It's rude to eavesdrop," he said, and Tíniel laughed.

"That's what I say!"

"You have two arms again!" Harûk exclaimed.

"She always had two arms, idiot," Mahaya said, shaking his head.

Tíniel grinned. "Well, it feels good to have finally grown it back. But what's wrong? Why are you here?"

"We've been trying to find you and talk to you for days," Mahaya said. "But you're always busy, or with important-looking people, or else we just couldn't find you. We were desperate."

"So when we heard that there were more important people arriving today, we figured you would be talking to them," Harûk explained. "So we came here."

"Sorry," Mahaya added.

"Don't be silly," she said. "I will always have time to speak with you two. How are you? How was the battle and everything?"

"Awful," Mahaya said, grimacing. "I have never seen anything as bad as that, and I hope I never will again."

"We stank of orc for days afterwards," Harûk said. "And we lost six more of the crew."

"So there are barely any left," she said sadly.

Mahaya shrugged, looking away. "They fought hard."

"There are four of us," Harûk said. "Me, Mahaya, Jako and Odimba. Plus you, of course. But that is all that remains of the _Haedannen_."

"Then our dead shall be honoured," she said firmly. "Along with all the others. I'll make sure of it."

"Something else we wanted to ask you," Harûk said. "Have you seen Remuil at all?"

She shook her head. "Not since before you all left. Which, by the way, I resent."

Mahaya winced. "Sorry," he said again. "But you were being more of a fool than Harûk. There is no way you could have survived the battle."

"I know," she sighed. "I know. So you are forgiven, this time."

"Can we stay on track, please?" Harûk said. "Remuil is missing. This is a problem."

She frowned. "Why?"

"Because we looked for his body after the battle," Mahaya said. "When they were piling up all the corpses. And his was the only one we couldn't find."

"So he's alive?" she asked.

"Well he's turned into a ghost if he is," Harûk said. "We've neither seen nor heard him since the battle. We knew he marched out with your folk, so we were hoping you might know."

"I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head. "But I've heard nothing. My brother hasn't mentioned anything either, but I could ask him."

"Don't bother," Mahaya said. "If he's keeping a low profile, there's probably a reason. I just hope that he'll come and find us after a while."

"We've nowhere to go otherwise," Harûk said, serious for once. "There's four left in the crew of the _Haedannen_. We have no ship, no way back to the coast. We need him."

"You'll always have a place with my people," she said. "If Remuil is dead, or if he doesn't come back, you can come East with me and my people. You'll have a home with us."

Harûk hummed. "Aren't the Khandi sort of crazy zealot warriors?"

She raised an eyebrow as Mahaya elbowed him in the side. "Ungrateful sea-slug," he said. Then he turned to Tíniel. "I'll take up on your offer. If there is no _Haedannen,_ there's nothing left for me at sea. A new start would be appreciated."

"I suppose I might come along for the walk too," Harûk said. "But only if we can't find Remuil."

"Or if he stops avoiding us," Tíniel said darkly. She remembered asking him his true name before he'd left.

 _If we meet again after the Black Gate, I will tell you,_ he'd said. Now she wondered if he was avoiding her – avoiding everyone who might recognise him – so that his past could stay hidden a little longer. She didn't know if she felt annoyed or relieved that it was no longer her problem.

But then she felt a prickling on the back of her neck. She looked up, and he was there, staring right at her. He stood on the outer wall of the city, looking down at the King's encampment, the hood of his dark cloak turned up to hide his face. But she recognised him instantly, and she knew that he saw her. Then he turned and walked away.

"What?" Harûk was saying. "What is it?"

She shook her head, mystified. "Never, ever try to understand an Elf," she said.

* * *

 **Thank you all so much for reading, and also to my beautiful reviewers. Let me know what you thought of the chapter – or, if you're a binge-reader (my favourite kind of reader), tell me what you think of the story so far! We're getting really close to winding up, and even though the thought of marking this story 'Completed' is low-key heartbreaking, it also brings us to some super exciting chapters.**

 **Follow, favourite and review!**

 **S**


	44. The Darkness Unseen

**44 – THE DARKNESS UNSEEN**

* * *

The days drew on, and before he knew it, the coronation was only a week away. Aragorn wasn't sure how he felt about it; he was eager to get into the city and begin the work of rebuilding the world after the war. But he was also dreading what he knew would inevitably become a downward spiral into politics and diplomacy, a world he had never really enjoyed.

What made it worse was the knowledge that he was doing it alone. After they'd won the battle, he'd envisaged a coronation not only of himself as king, but of Tíniel as his queen. But that dream had quickly fizzled and died upon his return.

He knew she had a point; no king in the history of his lineage – or, for that matter, in the West – had ever had an Eastern bride. It would be strange at the least, and at the worst, it would undermine his popularity and deteriorate support that he was relying on.

And he knew she had a people of her own to lead back in Khand. Who was he to demand that she step away from that duty for him? But it still stung, and he allowed a little time each day for feeling sorry for himself. The rest of the time, he focussed on being happy.

They'd won the war. He'd led the free people of Middle-earth to the very Black Gates of Mordor, and they'd come away victorious. The days that followed – the small lapse of peace between war and his coronation – he spent with his friends, telling stories of what had passed and conjecturing about the future. Their speculations were always bright.

And yet, the hollow space that Tíniel had occupied remained in his chest, and it felt like it grew bigger every day.

"What are you thinking, Aragorn?" Gimli asked, jolting him from his thoughts. "You've ignored the last three questions asked of you."

"Sorry," he said. "I am sorry. I was pondering our move into the city."

"Ah," Gandalf said knowingly. "Coronation day."

"It's in a week, is it not?" Frodo asked.

"I'm terribly excited for it," Merry said, "but I shall be glad to go home afterwards, back to the Shire."

"Me too,'" Sam said feelingly.

"Will you go home to your forest, Legolas?" Pippin asked. "Will all those spiders be gone now?"

Legolas paused in his pacing, his fingers twisting and untwisting. Aragorn frowned; his friend had become uncharacteristically restless of late.

"Perhaps," the Elf said. "I do not yet know."

"You won't be going home until you've fulfilled your promise to me!" Gimli announced. "I'll explore the accursed Fangorn Forest with you once you've explored the caves of Helm's Deep with me!"

"A stranger friendship there never was," Aragorn muttered, giving a half-smile.

"Oh, I can think of a few," Gandalf said, getting to his feet. "But it's time for me to go, I'm afraid."

"Go?" Pippin asked, sitting up and frowning. "I no longer trust what you say, Gandalf, and I shan't for a while. Do you mean leave for good, or are you off for a quick stroll but shall return in an hour?"

"Neither, Peregrin," Gandalf said, putting on his hat. "but I have people to speak to, places to go. I shall be back before the sun sets."

As Gandalf left them, Dessa arrived.

"Hello, Sam," she said. "Hello Pippin. Hello everyone. Is Aragorn here?"

"Here I am," he said, getting to his feet. "Am I wanted?"

"Well, sort of," she said. "There's a party of kings from the South, and they're about to enter the city."

Gimli rolled his eyes. "I would wager half the treasure in Erebor that Gandalf already knew of this and neglected to tell us."

"I'll take that wager," Legolas said.

"I should go," Aragorn said, reaching for his sword and strapping it on. "Dessa, will you tell the Company? We need to be present – not threatening, just… there."

"Done," she said, and disappeared.

"Strider," said Merry. "What's happening?"

"Our old enemies are coming," he said. "They need to know that there's a King."

* * *

Tíniel took another step, leaning heavily on the waist-height stone wall.

"Well done!" Éowyn said encouragingly. "You're nearly there!"

"Is it really that hard?" Lothíriel asked, sighing. " _I_ could walk when I was just a baby."

"Your jokes aren't helping," Éowyn said, elbowing her in the side.

"Éowyn," Tíniel said through gritted teeth. "You have my permission to chop off her head if she says another word."

"Hey!"

"Best keep an eye out," Éowyn said, a wicked grin on her face. "You _are_ pretty annoying."

"You can't chop off my head!" Lothíriel said. "I'm important!"

"Not to me you're not," Tíniel said, dragging her left foot forward for another painful step and stifling a groan.

"Who's chopping off whose head?" came a voice, and she turned to see Éomer standing at the entrance to the sectioned-off part of the gardens they were in.

"Me," she said. "I'm beheading anyone who dares to say that I'm not good at walking."

He raised an eyebrow. "You're _great_ at walking."

"Exactly," she said, gritting her teeth and taking another step. "I am a master."

"Three more steps and you're at your chair," Éowyn said hearteningly.

"So we'll only be here another hour," Lothíriel muttered. Éowyn swatted at her again, and Éomer stifled a smile.

"Who is this, sister?"

"Allow me to introduce the infuriatingly childish daughter of Imrahil, Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth," Éowyn said wryly. "Lothíriel, my brother Éomer. Please wait at least a few minutes before you make him want to kill you."

"Lovely to meet you," Lothíriel said. "If you're the king of Rohan, why are you dressed like a farmer?"

Éomer frowned and looked down at his tunic. "I am not."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I am not!"

"Yes, you –"

"Shut _up_ , Lothíriel," Tíniel grunted, and collapsed into the chair, breathing heavily. "You've been chattering for so long that I've taken three steps."

"What can I say?" Lothíriel smirked. "I'm a conversationalist."

"Oh – Tíniel," Éomer said. "There is a reason that I've come."

"Thank goodness," Éowyn said. "For a moment there I thought you actually wanted to _see_ me."

"What is it?" Tíniel asked, trying in vain to massage the aches out of her lower back.

"There's a party of kings from Harad who have just arrived, and Faramir sent me to find you," Éomer said. "It's quite urgent."

"Well I'm glad you wasted all this time bickering then," she said sarcastically. "You'll need to wheel me there, I can't push myself fast enough."

"Wheel you?" he asked, looking confused.

Éowyn sighed. "I'll do it," she said. "Éomer, you can babysit Lothíriel."

Lothíriel scowled. '" don't need to be looked after."

"Yes, you do," Tíniel said. "Éowyn, let's go."

"You look like a farmer," she heard Lothíriel say as Éowyn wheeled her away.

"No, I don't," Éomer replied.

"Yes, you do. But a handsome farmer, so don't worry."

Minutes later, they arrived at the doors to the Great Hall.

"By the stars, I'm glad you're here," Faramir whispered to her when she came to a stop beside him. "I've been trying to make small talk for five minutes, but they speak very little Westron, and I speak none of… whatever they're speaking."

"Fear not," she said wryly. "I am come to save you."

She surveyed the people before her. There were eight of them; two had the coal black skin of Far Harad. Two more wore brightly coloured turbans, marking them as of Near Harad. One was from East Harad, his head covered with something similar to a _vadi_. One was a woman with a strong jaw, her hands and forearms covered with tattoos, marking her as a chief of a coastal tribe in Harad. One was an old man she recognised, the Khondyë of the Kheviag tribe in Khand. And the last…

"Akhund," she said, speaking in Westron and shaking her head. "You were here the whole time and you let poor Faramir suffer?"

The wizard grinned. "I couldn't help it," he said, shrugging apologetically at Faramir. "But he did admirably."

"Should have known," Faramir muttered darkly. Éowyn patted his arm comfortingly.

Tíniel turned to the other chiefs. "Welcome," she said, speaking slowly in Westron. "Which language would you like to speak in?"

"We all speak Kakathi," one of the kings from Near Harad said. Tíniel breathed a silent sigh of relief; she knew the language well.

The woman spoke first. "Introductions are required, I suppose. I am Jekilah Sambah."

"Tchamar Homara," said the Eastern king, his fist to his chest.

One of the men of Far Harad raised his hand in greeting. "I am Babebo," he said. "And this is my son, of the same name."

"Magakh Khondyë, of the Kheviag tribe," said the Khandi man, saluting with his fist to his shoulder. "We have met before."

"Bahar, of the Red Scorpions," said one of the kings of Near Harad.

"And Hassif of the Sand Leopards," the other said, bowing.

"And we two are already well acquainted," Akhund said with a smile.

"Then I welcome you all to Gondor," she said. "You have met Faramir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor in the absence of the King. And I am Tchakhura Khondyë of the Maruvikh of Khand."

"We know who you are," Jekilah said, eyeing her.

"Might we go somewhere to discuss matters?" Akhund said. "Perhaps somewhere under the open sky? Many of us dislike the heavy stone buildings of the North."

"A dislike I understand well," she said, and turned to Faramir, switching back to Common. "They wish to speak somewhere with us. Where can we go?"

"The council chambers?" he suggested, but she shook her head.

"Somewhere outside. This is Southern diplomacy, my friend. We do things differently."

"How about the gardens next to the Houses of Healing? Éowyn said. "There are plenty of quiet places. You could set a guard to make sure you are not disturbed."

"It will do. Have a servant bring mulled wine," Tíniel said, and turned back to the kings. "Follow me, if you please."

There was an awkward pause where they just stared at her and nobody moved, and then Tíniel cleared her throat. "Faramir?"

"Right, yes, sorry," he said, jolting into action, and began pushing her chair to the gardens. Magakh Khondyë fell into step beside her.

"I see you have been recently injured," he said, glancing down at her chair. "I am sorry."

She shrugged. "An injured Khondyë is still a Khondyë. There are challenges, yes, but I can still do my duties."

"Of course." He hesitated and tugged on his _vadi_. "I wanted… to apologise to you, Tchakhura. When your father was still Khondyë, your tribe came to me several times, asking for refuge from Gondor's attacks, as I am sure you know."

"I know it very well," she said shortly, shifting in her seat. "I was there, Khondyë. I lived it."

"I apologise," he said. "I see things now in a different light. We should have allowed you onto our lands."

"Your apology comes late," she said stiffly. "Years too late, and with a bad motive behind it."

"Bad motive?"

She looked up at him. "I know you have all come here to surrender. Of course, you see things in a different light now; you see them from the perspective of someone who might finally have to pay for what he did in the past." Magakh's jaw tightened.

"But you don't need to be afraid," she went on, smiling slightly. "It is not me who will make the final decisions on what to do with you. Apologising for our history will not make things any better for you, but nor will I do anything to make things worse. Here in the North, we foreigners must band together."

He nodded slowly. "You are just, Khondyë. You do your father proud."

She blinked. "Whether or not he would agree with that is a different matter."

Magakh shrugged. "He seemed a hard man, yes, but I met him many times. He wanted the very best for his children."

"It will remain a mystery now," she said.

They walked through the gardens for a while until they came to a green clearing. There was a still pool to one side, and they were hedged in by trees with sweet-smelling white flowers. It was peaceful and serene.

"There is nowhere to sit," Faramir began to say, but stopped when the kings began to sit cross-legged on the ground. "Oh," he said.

"Like I said, Southern diplomacy," Tíniel said, laughing at his confusion. "Will you help me sit?" She got out of the chair by herself, and Faramir took her by the elbows and lowered her to the ground. It was clumsy and ungraceful, but it did the job. He settled beside her.

The servant arrived and distributed cups of warm, spiced wine. Tíniel surveyed the circle as they took the cups with nods of thanks. They were an impressive bunch; all proud, tall, sharp-eyed and arrayed in the richest clothing the South had to offer. Some of them stared at her, trying to read her in return. Others exchanged glances of reluctance for what was to come.

"So," she said at last, deciding that she'd let them suffer enough. They all knew what was going to be said, but it needed to be said anyway. "Why have you come here, to the capital of Gondor?"

"We are here to sue for peace," said Hassif. "We want the violence and war to end as much as you do, and we have come to negotiate its terms."

"Let us not pretend that you have anything to bargain with here," Tiniel said flatly. "The violence _has_ ended. You are not suing for peace; you are surrendering to Gondor and the Northmen. You didn't win victory even when Sauron was on your side. You think you have a chance now?"

"We could continue," the elder Babebo said, "foolish though it would be. We could muster every man, woman and child in Harad and the East and throw them at you. Many of our peoples would prefer to die free than continue to live in slavery."

"And yet it would result in the utter decimation of your people," she replied.

"It would also result in great losses for the Northmen," Jekilah said sharply. "You are trying to regather, to heal after your costly victory. Further attacks would be disastrous for you."

Tíniel sighed. "You are trying to create a bargaining chip where otherwise you have none," she said.

"We do not do this out of arrogance, Khondyë," Tchamar said quietly. "You should know better than most how Gondor has treated those whom they perceive as their enemies in the past. This is our last resort. This is an act of desperation."

"We are afraid for our people," Hassid agreed. "For most of us, it was an act of survival to join with the Master. But now, we are going to be punished by Gondor for it." He shrugged. "We are doing what we have always done: trying to survive."

"For many of our people, it will matter little," Jekilah said. "Sauron will be replaced by the King of Gondor, and they will continue to live out their lives as thralls. But for us, their leaders… if there is a difference that can be made, we want to make it."

Tíniel took another slow sip from her cup, thinking their words over. "I know how you feel," she said at last. "My tribe and I have been in your position, caught between a rock and a hard place and punished for whichever we do not choose. If it were up to me, you would go free back to your lands. But it is not up to me."

"Then who?" Magakh asked.

"The King," she said, "when he is coronated in a week's time. He will decide Gondor's actions and its future relations with the South."

"And what are our chances?" Hassif asked.

"He is a good man," she said. "He is just and clear-thinking. But he has spent almost all his life in the North, and the time he has been in the South he has spent fighting us. And Gondor has spent almost its whole history at odds with the South."

"That does not bode well," the younger Babebo muttered, shifting.

"I wish I could guarantee freedom, or even safety for your people," Tíniel said. "But I cannot. I hope, like you, that the King will be lenient. But I have never spoken to him concerning the future of our relations, so I do not know." She paused, and sighed. "I am sorry."

"You are saying that there is no one in Gondor who knows our ways, who understands our plight?" Bahar spoke up desperately. "How in the world are we supposed to negotiate with that? What chance do we have?"

"There is one person," Akhund said. "One of us knows the King well and has also become acquainted with the ways of the North. There is one who could argue your case."

"Akhund," Tíniel said tiredly.

"Who is it?" the younger Babebo asked.

"It is Tchakhura Khondyë," Akhund said, turning to her. "You are not as powerless as you seem to think, my dear. Have you forgotten the words of the prophecy?"

"Far from it," she said, a warning in her voice. "But that is irrelevant now. Anyway, I will be gone before the month is out. I am returning to Khand with my tribe."

"But if you could intercede for us," Tchamar said, "it could make all the difference!"

"Or no difference," she said shortly.

"If there is _anything_ you could do," Hassif said. "We would be grateful."

They all looked at her, eight pairs of hopeful eyes in eight dark faces. She sighed. "I will do what I can, though it is not much."

"Thank you," the elder Babebo said, inclining his head.

"And I will give you this advice," she added. "When you speak with the king, after he has been crowned, do not threaten him with further war. He knows as well as you and I that it is a futile, desperate move. But he is not like other Northmen." She gave a small smile tinged with sadness. "He is special. Tell him the truth; tell him you have been oppressed by Sauron, and that your people could be peaceful and powerful allies, if only they were free."

"We will do it," Jekilah said. "We thank you, Khondyë. It is something beyond what we hoped to have someone like you to speak with."

"Any of you would do the same in my position," Tíniel replied. "In the North, we are one people. Go in peace."

All of them, save Akhund, Faramir and Tíniel, got to their feet and made their way out of the little clearing, talking quietly amongst themselves.

"So," Faramir said. "What happened?"

Tiniel grinned, tipping her head back and finishing the cup of wine. "We came to a cautious agreement that the Southrons will not try to invade Gondor again."

"They threatened us?!"

"Oh, and also that I would intercede on their behalf for a favourable peace with Gondor."

"You didn't actually tell them that there would be an outcome like that, did you?" he asked, frowning slightly. "Because in all likelihood, there won't."

"I promised nothing but that I would speak with Aragorn," she said. "But there are many things you do not understand about them, so do not make your predictions too readily."

"We can discuss policy later," he said, getting to his feet and stretching. "We've been here long enough. Do you want me to put you back into you chair?"

Tíniel winced, feeling like a baby that had to be carried around by its parents, but Akhund replied before she could.

"If you don't mind, my dear boy, I'd like a moment alone with our good friend Tíniel," he said. Tíniel and Faramir raised an eyebrow each, but Faramir nodded.

"As you wish," he said. "As long as you'll be able to get back alright?"

She nodded. "I'll be alright," she said. "Akhund will look after me."

"As I have always done, despite your constant resent and accusations," he said, the fatherly smile reappearing. "Oh, and Faramir – if, on your way out, you see a wizard who looks quite a lot like me, send him our way."

Faramir bowed and exited, and Tíniel turned back to Akhund. "Gandalf is coming?"

"Gandalf?" He frowned, but then his expression cleared. "Oh yes, Gandalf. Yes, he is coming, and he might bring along a friend or two. You know, I used to have a name in the West, but I forgot it a few hundred years ago. I think I shall acquire a new one, for they struggle to pronounce _Akhund_ up here."

"Friends?" she said, her curiosity rearing its head. "Who?"

"Oh, you shall see soon enough," he said, taking his hat off and brushing off its brim. "Though they may not be accustomed to sitting on the ground. Would you like me to help you into your chair?"

"I suppose," she said. He got up and lifted her under the arms just as Faramir had. Once she was standing, she lowered herself back down into the chair.

"Ah, just in time," Akhund said, looking behind her. "Here they are."

Tíniel turned in her seat to see Gandalf step into the clearing, followed by Elrond and Galadriel. She swallowed thickly, her mouth suddenly dry. This was going to be some discussion.

* * *

 **You are not gonna _believe_ the stuff that's about to go down next chapter (well actually there was a prophecy about it in chapter 1, so you might I guess lol). This chapter was great fun to write – I hope my undergrad diplomacy training didn't come off too strong...**

 **One intrepid reviewer was wondering what Tíniel might look like, suggesting Octavia Blake (never seen the show but I did some googling for you girl). I was thinking Tíniel would be more of a super-muscley Shaunette Renee Wilson. What do you guys think?**

 **But for real, we're getting close to the end. How exciting/devastating (choose one)! Make sure you follow, favourite and review. Your mothers aren't the only ones who think you're beautiful: I do too.**

 **S**


	45. The Khondyë's Firstborn

**45 – THE KHONDYË'S FIRSTBORN**

* * *

"Tíniel Rómentári," Galadriel said, her voice falling like silver water. "Many strange things have come to pass since our paths last crossed."

"Uh," Tíniel said. "Yes, they have."

"How are you feeling?" Gandalf asked her. "How is your back?"

"Better every day now that I've been seeing the Healers," she said, glad for a topic of conversation that didn't include stating the obvious or talking about the destiny of the world.

"We have come to speak with you of the prophecy, and of the fate of Middle-earth," Elrond said. Tíniel deflated a little.

"Is that really necessary?" she tried. "The prophecy has been fulfilled. It is behind me."

"That remains to be seen," Galadriel said, drifting eerily over to stand beside the pool.

"Why don't we think about this logically?" Gandalf said comfortingly.

"Logical thinking never was your strong suit, my friend," Akhund put in with a knowing smile.

Gandalf, with practised indifference, completely ignored him. "Give us the first line, Tíniel."

" _Fleeing from hate and hiding from fear,"_ she quoted reluctantly. "Do we really need to do this?"

"Well, you can hardly outrun us in your current condition, can you?" Akhund said. "Now, this line is simple enough: because of the prophecy, Tchakhura's father ordered her to be executed. She fled her own people's hate and fear of betrayal and disloyalty."

"Despite her own innocence," Elrond mused. "A self-fulfilling prophecy is always the most interesting."

"Very well," Gandalf said. "The next line?"

" _Betrayer of those who hold her most dear_ ," she said with an exasperated sigh. "I can give you the meaning of this one: I only ever betrayed people who loved me. My tribe first, then Boromir, then Faramir." Even speaking of it made her breath shallower, and she pursed her lips.

"Good, good," Akhund said, not seeming to notice her reaction. "Next?"

" _First for life._ "

"Again, simple," Elrond said. "The first instance was when you failed to kill yourself."

Gandalf winced. "How delicately put."

Tíniel shrugged. "Well, it's not pretty, but he's not wrong."

"Then it was _next for gold_ ," Akhund said. "What happened there?"

Tíniel swallowed and looked down, but Galadriel answered for her.

"When given the choice between saving the life of her friend and pursuing the One Ring, she chose the Ring," she said, still facing the unmoving water. "Thus, Boromir the Steward's son met his end."

Tíniel stared rigidly at the ground, her hands clenched into tight fists as the conversation continued around her.

"Gods carry him gently," Akhund murmured.

"Alright," Gandalf said. " _Last to follow what heart has told._ Can we explain that?"

"Easily," she said through gritted teeth, starting to hate this discussion. "I made two promises, and I couldn't keep both. So I followed my heart, did what I felt I had to do."

"In the Khandi language, _heart_ and _duty_ are the same word," Akhund explained.

"You went with your tribe instead of returning to Minas Tirith with Boromir's brother, as you had sworn you would," Galadriel murmured. Tíniel looked up, liking the Elf less and less.

"Yes."

"But she came back here eventually anyway," Akhund said, frowning. "Technically, she kept both promises in the end."

"I think it is more to do with what Tíniel intended," Elrond said.

She sighed. "He is right. I fully intended to return to Khand. I fully, knowingly chose to betray Faramir."

"Let us move on," Gandalf said.

"We come to the difficult part," Akhund said. " _Light to be in a darkness unseen."_

"This could have many meanings," Gandalf said. "Many times in your travels you have been a friend to those in dark times, Tíniel."

"Just as they have been friends to me," she said. "That is the nature of friendship. Why would the prophecy predict something like that?"

"I thought at first that it perhaps referred to the charge you led out of the city during the battle of the Pelennor Fields," Elrond mused. "The Witch-king brought terror and darkness down on the minds of men until Tíniel gave them something to follow – a light, so to speak."

"But, in the end, we settled on a better interpretation," Galadriel spoke up, turning at last. Everyone fell silent, and all eyes watched her unreadable face.

"If I have seen correctly," she said, "the prophecy refers not to how you guided your friends, or the soldiers of Minas Tirith, but rather one man."

"Aragorn," Akhund said. "It is Aragorn – of course it is him. I didn't understand what they were all going on about at first, but Gandalf soon made it clear to me."

"You know that Aragorn has long been a hope to others," Gandalf said, turning to look at her. "A hope to his mother Gilraen when he was born, a hope to his clan as he grew, and now the hope of all the Free People of the world. But when he grew weary, Tíniel, _you_ became a hope for _him_. I saw it with my own eyes."

A silence stretched on for perhaps a minute as the Wise studied her. Tíniel held her chin high, trying not to shift uncomfortably. What in all of Middle-earth were they talking about?

"Well, she is certainly worthy," Elrond said at last. "I can think of none better suited."

"Indeed," Akhund said with a twinkle in his eye. "Now, where were we?"

" _Part of two worlds, yet torn between,_ " Tíniel said, eager to move on so that they would start speaking about something she understood. "Simple enough."

"You have two halves," Gandalf said, the lines around his eyes crinkling in a smile. "Two families, two homes, two _hamarakhi._ One is of Khand, and one is of Gondor. And for all the time you have been here in the North, those halves have battled within you. Even now, you cannot reconcile them."

"Because there is no reconciliation," she said. "The worlds are too different, they cannot coexist. That is why I must choose one over the other."

"And you have chosen Khand," Akhund said, sounding almost sad.

"You delude yourself," Galadriel said, turning back to the pool and staring out over it. "Balance may be made between any things, no matter how strange."

"Fine," Tíniel said, her exasperation getting the better of her. "Fine. Whatever you say. Now let's just get this over with. _The greatest will be, despite hatred and scorn, the lowest among you, the Khondyë's firstborn._ "

"And here we come to the crux of the matter," Gandalf said.

"Yes," Elrond agreed. "Here is why the prophecy was sent to us. Here is why it will touch the lives of every man and woman in the known lands."

"I think you are being rather dramatic," Tíniel said, trying not to sound cross. "I have already become the greatest among them. I became the Khondyë after my father died. End of story, prophecy fulfilled."

"Untrue!" Akhund stated crisply. "These two lines have not yet come to pass."

"The prophecy was spoken while your father was present," Gandalf said. "And he was chief. But you were to be the _greatest_ , implying that whatever you are to become is greater than the mere Khondyë of your tribe."

Tíniel's mouth opened and shut a few times. " _Mere Khondyë_ … Gandalf, I may not be one of the Wise. I may not know how to deconstruct the meaning of a prophecy, but I know that I can become no more than what I am. I am the uncontested leader of the biggest tribe of Khand. And Khand is not a kingdom. It is a collection of tribes with a few cities but no overarching authority. It is simply impossible for me to become more politically powerful than I already am."

Akhund turned a laugh into a cough, and Elrond looked at her thoughtfully. "Is it?"

There was another long silence, and Tíniel threw her hands up in frustration. "By the stars… I know you've all been trying to tell me something, but what is stopping you from just _saying_ it?"

Gandalf and Akhund laughed heartily, and even Galadriel cracked a smile.

"Isn't she wonderful?" Akhund said, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. "Is she not perfect?"

"She will do well, if it is the path she chooses," Galadriel said.

" _What?_ " Tíniel almost shouted. "What path? What choice?"

"What is your relation to Aragorn Elessar, child?" Galadriel asked. Tíniel blinked twice and then exhaled heavily.

"I suppose there is no point in sidestepping the issue with you," she said quietly.

"None at all," Akhund agreed cheerfully. "If it makes you feel better, we have already discussed it at length."

She frowned at him. "Well… alright. I am in love with him."

Gandalf's bushy eyebrows rose slightly. Elrond's lips twitched. Akhund went slightly misty eyed.

"And he?" Galadriel prompted.

"He feels the same way, so far as I can tell," she muttered, feeling herself flush.

"Well, that solves that then," Akhund said. "Get married and be done with it!"

She sighed, the frustration rising again. "We cannot wed, Akhund, any fool could see."

"And why so?" Elrond asked.

"Because he is to be king of Gondor and Arnor, the entire reunited kingdom of the West! And I am but a chief from the desert! Can you imagine what the people would think if he married a Khandi woman? They would riot. They would revolt! Not to mention that I have duties of my own. I cannot simply leave my tribe to fend for themselves. Marriage with Aragorn…" she shook her head. "No matter how lovely a fantasy, it is impossible."

"Oh dear," said Akhund. "Tchakhura, dear, you're being very obtuse."

"No, she isn't," Gandalf said. "She's being good and selfless and wrong."

"Just let me know when you're all going to stop speaking in riddles," she said crossly. "Then I will start listening!"

"Fair enough," Elrond said, a smile underlying his voice. "You are owed an explanation."

"Alright," Akhund said, as though he were explaining something to a child. "Think back to before the prophecy, before the War of the Ring began. What was your life like?"

"It was good," she said slowly. "It was familiar. Comfortable. Except for Gondor's attacks, it was –"

"Exactly!" Gandalf said cutting her off. "Gondor's attacks! Your people were ever at odds with Gondor, were they not?"

"We were," she said. "But they were the aggressors, not we."

"It wasn't – isn't – just your tribe," Akhund said. "Gondor has been at war, or at least volatile peace, with Harad for centuries. Further North, the Easterlings fight the Northmen. It is embedded in the way of the world – East against West, South against North."

"Now think to the prophecy," Elrond urged her. "What did it achieve?"

"Well, it made me miserable," she said, but he shook his head.

"Think, Tíniel. What happened purely because of the prophecy? Not the betrayals, but the consequences thereof. What wouldn't have happened without it?"

"I wouldn't have come North," she said, wracking her brains. "I wouldn't have been on the _Haedannen._ I wouldn't have met Boromir or Faramir or made friends in Minas Tirith. I wouldn't have gone to your council, or met the Fellowship." She frowned. "The gods pushed me to meet Aragorn. They sent me doom dreams before I even met him, so we were drawn to each other…" she looked up sharply, realisation dawning on her face. "It's that, isn't it?"

Elrond smiled slightly, and she knew she was right.

"The Valar pushed you and Aragorn together," Akhund said. "And now think back to the events of this afternoon. You were in a council of Southern kings with whom you negotiated on behalf of the new king."

"But I did barely anything to help," she said.

"You were someone they could speak to easily," Akhund said earnestly. "You were someone who understood them and where they came from. You were someone on their side, someone who could help them navigate the unfamiliar waters of Northern diplomacy."

"You are the link between North and South," Gandalf said gently. " _Part of two worlds yet torn between_. This is your purpose, and the purpose of the prophecy."

The whole world seemed to be shifting around Tíniel. She stared at Gandalf, not sure if she was understanding.

"You're saying that the prophecy took me from my tribe and put me in the North so that I could become a tool for peacekeeping in the future?" she said.

"There are prettier ways to put it," Elrond said. "But… yes, in essence."

"Not only that," Gandalf said. "It threw you into the path of the man who would become the single most powerful person in all of Middle-earth. And then, rather wonderfully, you fell in love with him."

"No," she said. "This is ridiculous. I have a duty to my tribe, not to the relationships between Gondor and its enemies."

"Do you not see?" Galadriel said, turning back, a smile playing on her lips. "The betrayals happened for a purpose, Rómentári. They broke your loyalties to your tribe, and then your loyalties to Gondor, even those you had to your closest friends. Now, though you pretend otherwise, your loyalty is fixed to one thing."

"And what is that?" Tíniel asked, truly mystified.

"Mankind," Galadriel said simply. "You proved that by fighting in the War of the Ring. You could have taken your people home, but instead you did as no one else could: you fought for the survival not of one people, but of all mankind. You do not belong to Khand or Gondor anymore. You belong to the world of Men."

Tíniel sat back heavily, her eyes wide and her breath quickening. "What does this mean?" she said hoarsely. "What does this mean for me?"

"It means that everything you have experienced – the prophecy, the doom dreams, the betrayals – has been leading you to this point," Elrond said. "Here is your destiny. You need only fulfil it, and you will change the world."

"We are stepping into the age of Men," Galadriel said, a note of sadness touching her voice. "Now you must lay the foundations that will last thousands of years. We must prevent man turning on man, as has been the way in the past. You are the last piece that must fall into place, the one that will ensure that the Fourth Age of the world does not repeat the mistakes of the past."

"To put it plainly and without riddles," Gandalf said, leaning in, "here is what you must do. Marry the man you love. Become the queen not only of Khand, not only of the Reunited Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor, but of the New Kingdom, the North and South combined."

" _The greatest will be, despite hatred and scorn,_ " Akhund said, his face kind and fatherly," _the lowest among you, the Khondyë's firstborn_."

Tíniel sat there, her mouth slightly open, for a full minute. The four of the Wise waited patiently for her to come to terms with what had been said, smiles on each of their faces.

"I – I – my _bamyë_ ," she stuttered, more bewildered than she had ever been. "I mean, my tribe, I... I cannot leave them!"

"Yes, you can," Akhund said. "Your brother Tcharum is more than capable, and he has led the Maruvikh well in your absence. He would make an excellent Khondyë."

She inclined her head absently, acknowledging the fact.

"Then I should…" she shook her head, unable to think straight. "I think – I don't – what if Aragorn doesn't want to marry me?"

"What?' said Gandalf. "Of course he does."

"I've been awful to him though," she said, panic creeping into her voice. "He has only ever been kind and patient, and I have been awful."

"Aragorn does not love insubstantially," Elrond said. "You may be easy on that front."

"Then this has been the purpose of everything, since the beginning?" she breathed. "Everything happened so that I – I could do this?"

"Since the beginning," Elrond agreed. "This is what we believe."

"Why do you think I gave you a second _hamarakhi_ when you passed through my woods?" Galadriel asked. "I saw in my Mirror that you were the Rómentári. I do not give gifts idly."

"Then it has not been for nothing," she whispered, tears filling her eyes. "It has not all been for nothing."

"No, it has not," Galadriel said, smiling gently. "As I said, there can be balance between all things. You have had your trials and your suffering. Now you can have your joy."

Tíniel looked back up, her thoughts crystallising with each breath she took. "You keep calling me that word," she said. " _Rómentári_. What does it mean?"

"The East-Queen," Elrond said. "It is that which you could become. Will you accept your destiny?"

A smile began small on Tíniel's face and grew steadily wider. Something joyous and hopeful and unencumbered bloomed in her chest.

"I think I need to go and talk to someone," she whispered.

* * *

 **I'm back and bigger than ever! Thanks a mill for all the love after the last chapter. We have reached CRUNCH TIME in the story; this chapter is perhaps the crux of the big story arc, and I spent a lot of time on it trying to make it right. I hope you loved it!**

 **And considering the implications of what Tíniel has just been told, I think we can all take a guess at what's coming next chapter...**

 **S**


	46. A Long Time Coming

**46 – A LONG TIME COMING**

* * *

It was Elrond who pushed her chair out of the gardens and through the city. She wanted to shout at him, tell him to hurry up, to match the galloping pace of her heartbeat. She wanted him to find a horse and put her on it so that she could gallop wildly out of the city to the encampment. But she remained quiet, clenching and unclenching her hands.

"You are afraid," Elrond said. "Why?"

She huffed out a breath, trying to expel some of her nerves with it. "I suppose I am afraid," she admitted. "And I suppose it is because this is my one chance to be happy, truly happy. This is everything I ever wanted, to be able to serve my people and to be with _him_ at the same time."

"Then you should be filled with joy, not anxiety."

"But what if I make a mistake?" she lamented. "I know it's silly, but... what if I say something wrong and spoil it all?" She shook her head and twisted in her chair. "Maybe we should go back. I think we should go back. Could you turn around please?"

Elrond simply lifted an unimpressed eyebrow. "I had hoped this childishness had come to an end by now," he said.

Tíniel blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You're so afraid of not doing your duty that you continually go out of your way to _avoid_ being happy."

She opened and closed her mouth like a fish. "That's not true!"

"Yes, it is."

"It isn't! Why on earth would I do something like that?"

"Because your whole life you've been trying to live up to a perfect image of what you should be like, and somehow you've convinced yourself that you have to be miserable to do so."

She couldn't find any words to reply, and the Elf almost smirked. Almost. "Stop digging up excuses to avoid this," he said with the authority of someone who was absolutely accustomed to his orders being carried out.

Still, Tíniel wasn't sure how to reply. Was he right? She _had_ been avoiding Aragorn, and the whole matter of her feelings for him, for days now. She thought back to Rohan, and her frown deepened. Alright, maybe weeks. But then she remembered Lothlórien and the Anduin, and sighed heavily. Months, then. She'd been running from Aragorn, and potential happiness, for months.

"And it took me two Elves and two wizards to figure it out," she muttered. Elrond caught the words and smiled. "By the stars, I'm dense."

"Not all the time. We just gave you the final push you needed."

Despite her realisation, the nervousness didn't abate. Her stomach squirmed, and she clenched her hands in her lap. "My father would call me a coward if he were here."

"And my father would say you are only a coward if you let your fear stop you from doing what you know you need to do," Elrond said. "He was a strong believer in keeping his promises, and never running from what must be. And so am I."

"Who was your father?" she said distractedly, gracelessly changing the subject so that she didn't have to discuss what she was about to do. "Is he still alive? Has he gone West?"

"I had two fathers," Elrond said. "The first, Eärendil, left when I was very young. I see him in the sky every night."

"Right," Tíniel said, frowning a little. She always seemed to forget how bizarre Elves were, but they never failed to find ways to remind her. "And the other?"

"My second father adopted and raised me, just as I adopted and raised Aragorn. It was he who taught me most of what I know."

"Where is he now?" she asked as they passed through the gate to the third circle.

"Dead, most likely," Elrond replied. She couldn't for the life of her read the emotion in his voice. "He disappeared from the earth many ages past."

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Don't be. He was a good father to me, as I hope I was to my own children." He paused. "And as I know Estel will be to yours."

She groaned and put her head in her hands, a wave of nerve-induced nausea sweeping over her. "I think I am going to be sick."

The chair rattled to a halt and Elrond came around and knelt before her. He took her hands in his.

"This will be the least of all your great deeds," he said. "Aragorn is not an orc, or a Witch-king. He is a Man. Do you trust him?"

"Of course," she said firmly, the fluttering in her stomach subsiding a little.

"Then trust him!" Elrond said simply, and he stood and began pushing the chair again.

"You know," she said thoughtfully, "that may be the most straightforward thing you've ever said to me."

She felt the Elf smile. "We'll be there soon," he said. "Tell me about your own father."

Their conversation made the rest of the distance to the gate pass in what felt like seconds. Tíniel's heart began to beat quickly again as they trundled across the flattened grass toward the encampment. Grey-cloaked rangers who were standing on guard bowed to Tíniel and Elrond as they passed. She recognised some of their faces, and she wished she knew their names so that she could strike up a conversation and delay the inevitable.

But Elrond whisked her through to the clearing. It was empty save for two rangers sitting and smoking by the smouldering fire. They looked up curiously at the new arrivals, and got to their feet when they recognised them, setting aside their pipes almost guiltily.

"I see Estel has spread his dirty habits further than I thought," Elrond muttered, just loud enough for her to hear. She gave a half-smile, but sobered quickly.

"Have you seen Aragorn?" Tíniel asked the two rangers, her voice higher pitched than usual. One of them nodded.

"He is holding council in his tent. It's the biggest one, just over that way."

"Shall we wait for him to finish?" Elrond asked her, his voice laden with amusement.

"I don't think so," she said, trying to sound sure. He pushed her over towards the tent until they were just a few feet away.

"Stop here, please," she said. He did so, and with an effort she used her arms to push herself out of the chair. Elrond stepped forward and offered his arm. She took it gratefully and, leaning on him heavily, she took two short, unsteady steps forward.

"I am sorry, lady," the ranger guarding the door of the tent said. "The Lord Aragorn has asked not to be disturbed. I cannot allow you entry."

"It is quite urgent," she said, suddenly filled with the ridiculous impulse to laugh. "I can't imagine he'd be too pleased if you turned him away, considering what I have to say."

"I am sorry, lady," he said firmly. "I have my orders."

"Who is within?" she asked.

"Lady, I apologise, but the Lord Aragorn is not to be disturbed."

She could scarcely believe that she had denied her heart through Lothlórien and Amon Hen, through Helm's Deep and the Pelennor Fields, to be foiled at the last step by a guard.

"I am an honorary member of the Fellowship of the Ring," she tried hopefully.

"My lady…"

"By the stars, man, I'd fight you if I could. And I'd win."

A shadow of alarm crossed his face, and his hand drifted towards his sword. "It is nothing against you, Lady Tíniel, Lord Elrond, but I have _orders_ –"

"Please let me in," she said, letting authority creep into her voice. "The future of the world is in the balance."

The guard hesitated and looked to Elrond, who nodded gravely. "She speaks truly."

With that, the guard reluctantly stepped aside. Tíniel breathed a sigh of relief, but just as quickly, her nerves returned, twice as bad as they had been before. The guard lifted the flap, and she and Elrond entered the tent together.

Tíniel breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that it was only the Fellowship inside, sitting comfortably on chairs that had been arranged in a circle.

"Thank the stars," she said. "It's just you."

"Lord Elrond, Tíniel," Gimli frowned. "How did you get in?"

"My exceptional good looks," she quipped, but the joke couldn't hide the trembling in her voice. "I may have also threatened the guard." Suddenly she felt very much like turning around and running away.

"You're walking!" Pippin exclaimed. "Do you do that all the time now?"

"Not all the time, no."

"Why have you come?" Legolas asked. His eyes bored into her, and she knew that he could tell something strange was happening.

"Does she need a reason to come spend time with us?" Merry cried. "Is it a crime to want to pass time in our splendid company?"

"It's a crime to seek out _your_ company, Merry," Sam said, skilfully ducking the clout that followed thereafter. Tíniel shifted, her grip tightening on Elrond's arm as her anxiety tripled.

"Well, it's good to see you, at any rate!" Gimli said, getting up and offering her a flagon of ale that he'd clearly been drinking from. She shook her head in refusal.

"You look sort of sickly, Tíniel," Frodo said. "Is everything alright? Do you need to sit down?"

"Have my seat!" Pippin said, jumping up and knocking the chair over in the process.

"Why have you come?" Legolas asked again, this time more urgently, getting to his feet as well and approaching her. "Tíniel, what happened?"

"If you would give me a moment to talk, I'll say so!" she said crossly, and silence fell.

Aragorn, the only one who'd been quiet before, got to his feet and slowly walked around to stand directly before her. He looked down at her, frowning slightly, and saw straight through any frail pretence of calm that she'd put up.

"What's wrong?" he asked quietly.

Tíniel took a deep breath. This is it, she thought. "Things have changed," she began.

His frown deepened. "What things? Tíniel, what happened?"

"Well, rather, nothing has changed, but the way I see things has changed…"

He shook his head, mystified. "What are you talking about? Did something happen in the City?"

"No," she said miserably, and glanced up at Elrond. "I'm making an awful mess of this."

"Just let her say her piece," Elrond said to Aragorn. Tíniel tightened her grip on his arm yet again, the pain of standing for so long beginning to set in.

"Aragorn," she said, the words all coming in a rush. "I know we discussed this before and we didn't really see eye to eye, but like I said, some light has been shed on some things that I didn't understand before and now – well, I was wondering… if you…" she swallowed thickly, a wave of terror crashing over her. This was it.

"Wondering if I what?" Aragorn asked, his eyes narrowing.

Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "If you... well, I wanted to know if... if there was a chance..."

"A chance of what?" he asked in near exasperation. His expression was torn between annoyance and worry.

"Aragorn," she blurted out. "Will you marry me?"

His jaw dropped. " _What?_ "

"Will you marry me?" she asked, her voice gaining strength as she said it again.

"Now just a moment," Sam said, his eyes round. "Just a few days ago, you said –"

"I know what I said," she cut him off. "I know, but I was stupid and wrong."

She looked at Aragorn, desperately willing him to say something, but he was simply staring at her, slack-jawed. Her heart thundered in her ears.

"But all the things you said before," Merry said slowly. "I mean, you made quite a convincing case for why you _shouldn't_ marry him..."

"What about your tribe?" Legolas said, wonderstruck.

"My brother can look after them," she said, her eyes still trained on the man before her.

"And the people of Gondor?" Gimli put in. "You don't think they'll mind a Khandi queen? You don't think they'll revolt and rebel and all that?"

"They'll have to deal with it, I suppose," she said. Her voice turned pleading. "Unless... that is, if… Aragorn, would you say something please?"

He blinked twice. "Um," he said.

"Maybe something more?" she suggested, her eyes searching his. Emotion after turbulent emotion flickered through them.

"You… you want to marry me," he said at last, as though he couldn't properly believe it.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, that's right."

"You've changed your mind about everything you said before?"

"Yes."

"You would leave your people to live in Gondor with me?"

"Yes."

"Despite what people think? Despite all that you thought before?"

" _Yes_ , Aragorn!"

"Then... yes."

She blinked. "What?"

"Yes!" he said, beginning to laugh. "Yes, I will marry you! Yes!"

The tent erupted with cheers and whoops, and before Tíniel knew it, Elrond had handed her to Aragorn. She practically fell into him, and he embraced her. She held him more tightly than she'd held anything before, laughing uncontrollably with relief and sudden, bubbling, unrestrainable joy. She thought her legs might have collapsed, but it didn't matter, because he was holding her up.

"Guard!" Aragorn called. She looked up at him. He was smiling more widely than she'd ever seen him smile before, and she felt warmth blossom in her chest.

"Aragorn?" the guard said in alarm, putting his head into the tent. "Is all well? Should I have let her in?"

"Send a message to the Steward of Gondor," Aragorn said. "Tell him that in a few days' time, there will be a wedding as well as a coronation."

And then – finally – he kissed her.

* * *

 **My goodness, I'm a sucker for a happy ending...**

 **Yours ever,**

 **S**


	47. The Birth of the New Kingdom

**46 – THE BIRTH OF THE NEW KINGDOM**

* * *

The three days between Tíniel's proposal and the wedding were without a doubt the happiest in Aragorn's life – so far, at least. Tíniel came down to the encampment every day to see him and the others. He delighted in the simple touches they shared and the small moments when their eyes met. He delighted in the knowledge that she was his, and he hers, properly this time – not secretly in stolen moments.

"Are you nervous?" she asked him, when they had a moment alone the day before he was to enter the city. "About the coronation, I mean."

"No," he said. He had pushed her along the outer wall of Minas Tirith, and now they had stopped. The chair was abandoned a few yards back, and they both sat with their backs to the wall, looking out at the Pelennor. "I was before, but I think I was more afraid of doing it all alone."

An easy smile spread across her face. He was seeing it more and more of late. It made her beautiful. "No chance of that now," she said.

"Thank the Valar," he said, reaching over and pulling her into his side. "Have you spoken to your brother about everything?"

"Yes. You should have seen how excited he was."

Aragorn smiled. "I am glad."

"He thinks it a great honour for me to become a Queen. And I didn't know you two were such good friends, but he is very pleased that I am to be married to you."

"A lot happened while you were sleeping after your battle with the Witch-king," he replied cryptically.

"Oh really?"

"Really. How do you think he'll do as Khondyë of your tribe?"

"He'll do wonderfully," she said with feeling. "I may have been the heir, but it was him that our father raised to be a Khondyë, more than he did me. Not to mention the fact that he's already been doing my job while I've been… occupied. But he'll be fine. Better than fine."

"Everything is coming together, don't you think?" he said. She craned her neck to look up at him.

"Yes," she said. He leaned down and kissed her briefly.

"I should get you back to the City," he said.

"You _should,_ " she said softly, "but do you _have_ to?"

"There are things that need to be done."

"When I'm the Queen, I shall order everyone else to do them for us. And then you will never need to leave my side."

"I'd be worried," he said, "if I didn't know for certain that you will want to oversee every single particular, meet every single emissary and sign every piece of paper yourself."

Her lips twitched. "I think you know me too well to marry me."

He grinned. "Come on. Walk to your chair."

"Get me my stick?"

He disentangled himself from her side, got to his feet and went over to her chair, from which he took a polished cane of dark wood. He handed it to her and helped her to stand up, wincing himself when she hissed sharply in pain.

"Sorry."

"It's fine," she said, her voice a little strained. "It's just the movement." She leaned heavily on the stick and made her slow, wobbling way back to the chair. He smiled as he watched her. Never before had he met anyone with as much tenacity as her, and he doubted he ever would.

She glanced back at him. "What?"

"Nothing," he said. "I'm just in love with you."

"Good," she said. "Now can you help me down, please?"

He wheeled her back to the encampment where Legolas met them.

"You were gone hours," the Elf said. "I did not know whether or not to send out a search party."

Aragorn snorted. "Valar forbid that I ever need a search party. I have never been lost in my life."

Legolas' mouth twitched. "That is a lie. Are you headed back into the city, Tíniel?"

"Yes," she said. "There is a lot to do before tomorrow, and I think I have run away from the work long enough."

Aragorn bent down and kissed her forehead. "Then I will see you tomorrow," he said.

"I will meet you in the city," she said. "And you'll finally be king."

He heart swelled within him. "And you my queen."

"The patience of Elves is legendary," Legolas said darkly. "But even I have my limits."

Tíniel laughed. "Alright, alright. Let's go."

* * *

That night she slept up in the citadel, and the next morning she was woken before the dawn by a loud knock. She blinked awake blearily and wondered if she'd imagined it until it came again.

"Who is there?" she called, trying to push herself into a sitting position.

"Anita and Éowyn," came Lothíriel's voice. Tíniel smiled.

"Come in," she called sleepily. "It's unlocked, and I can't get up."

The door was flung open and the three women entered, their arms full of things that Tíniel couldn't even begin to identify.

"Why are you here?" she yawned. "The sun isn't even up yet. Is someone dead?"

"We're here because it's your wedding day!" Anita said with unholy alacrity, dumping her armfuls of cloth on the end of the bed as Éowyn began lighting candles and illuminate the room. "And we're going to make you the most beautiful woman in the New Kingdom."

"And that will take several hours, if it is at all possible," Lothíriel said, smiling cheekily. "So rise and shine, Your Highness!"

Tíniel groaned and pulled the blanked over her head. "Another three hours of sleep would make me beautiful," she mumbled.

Éowyn snatched the blanket away and pulled her gently upright. "Come on, now! There is a lot to do, and not enough time to do it in!"

They began by undoing the braids in her hair.

"How did you _do_ these?" Lothíriel asked as she unravelled more of the tiny, tight-wound braids. "They must have taken hours!"

"They do," Tíniel said. "I did them myself, a few months or so ago now. Sometimes I don't bother to do it all like that, but I like it when they're done properly."

"I think the braids are beautiful," Éowyn said.

"And _I_ hope they don't take us too long to recreate," Anita muttered.

Tíniel smiled. "You can do up my hair however you like," she said. "No one will see it under my _vadi_ anyway."

"Are you _serious?"_ Lothíriel said. "Why in the name of Estë are we bothering with this, then?"

"Well, it's the thought that counts anyway," Anita muttered undoing the last braid.

"No," Lothíriel said darkly. "No, my thoughts are too precious to waste on this."

"Could you be a little bit more dramatic, please?" Éowyn said sarcastically.

"I'm getting my revenge," Lothíriel declared. "I shall be the one to wash her."

Tíniel frowned at her ominous tone. "Wash me?"

Once her hair was done, Anita and Éowyn filled a tub with hot water, stripped her naked, and together, lowered her into the water.

"Your scars," Éowyn murmured. "They're bad."

"At least most of the bruises have faded," Tíniel replied grimly, looking down at her torso. Wide, ugly, jagged lines marked where the Witch-king's mace had broken her skin.

"I've seen worse," Anita said briskly. "Now, brace yourself. Lothíriel's coming."

Lothíriel stepped forward, her face fixed with determination and a shadow of dark triumph.

"No, thank you," Tíniel said, but she was too late to stave off the attack. Lothíriel descended and began scrubbing with such a vengeance that Tíniel could _feel_ her skin coming off.

"Ow!" she snapped. "My ribs still hurt you know!"

"You poor thing," Lothíriel crooned, wringing out the cloth and attacking again. "But if you want to look halfway presentable for your own wedding, your ribs will have to bear it."

"You're the worst," Tíniel groaned as Lothíriel started on her hair. "You sadistic – ow! You didn't have to pull that!"

"But it was _fun_ ," Lothíriel replied comfortingly.

Next she was patted dry and then dabbed with some sweet-smelling oil. Then, as the sun peeked over the mountains in the East, Éowyn and Lothíriel each grabbed a dress from the pile on the bed.

"Alright," Éowyn said. "Which one?"

Tíniel stared. Éowyn held up a dress of deep red that had lace on the bodice and gold stitching on the skirt. Lothíriel held up one of dark blue and glimmering silver – Gondor colours – and with a long train.

"They're both lovely," she said at last. "But I'm afraid tradition dictates that I wear my tunic."

"Aha!" Anita said, going over to the bed and digging through the pile. "I win!"

Tíniel frowned. "What?"

"Anita thought you would want to wear your tunic," Éowyn sighed. "But we two wagered you wouldn't."

"Our mistake," Lothíriel laughed. "I have never won a bet in my life."

"Well, you do have terrible judgement," Éowyn said.

"No, _you_ have terrible judgement."

"No, I –" she stopped and shook her head. "I am not doing this now."

"Good decision," Anita said. "Now, luckily for you, I noticed that you've been going about in that musty, too-big tunic that replaced your old one. So, I made you another."

She lifted up a tunic from the bed and showed it to Tíniel, who caught her breath. It was almost identical to every other Khandi tunic, except this one was woven of a softer, richer fabric. And stitched in gold thread on the right shoulder was a sword and a setting sun, the emblem of the Maruvikh. On the left shoulder, the stars and tree of Gondor glinted silver in the morning sunshine.

"It's perfect," Tíniel said. "Perfect. Anita, you are a real friend."

"What are we?" Lothíriel said to Éowyn. "Cave-trolls?"

"Quit your complaining and come help me do up her hair," Anita said happily.

It was near to midday when they finally finished.

"Now I know the real reason you wanted to start early," Tíniel said grumpily, watching them all from her vantage point on the bed. "So you could have enough time to get _yourselves_ ready!"

"Correct," Lothíriel said, adjusting her earrings carefully. "We actually don't care how you look."

"Well, hurry up!" she said. "Faramir told me to be there before midday! We're going to be late!"

"Relax," Éowyn said. "As long as you don't miss the wedding part, or the bit when they put the crown on your head, you'll be fine."

"Éowyn! It's the return of the king! The _king!_ "

"Ignore them, Tíniel," Anita said, laughing. "We wouldn't dream of making you late."

* * *

Of course, as it happened, they _were_ late.

"Where have you been?" Faramir hissed as Éowyn pulled Tíniel's chair up beside him.

"Waiting for all these lovely ladies to stop ruffling their feathers," she whispered back. "Relax, he isn't here yet."

"He just entered the city," Faramir said, "so we have a little while." He looked down and took a proper look at her. His eyes widened fractionally. "Little sister, you are beautiful."

She blushed. She could tell that, for once, he wasn't joking. "And you look the picture of a Gondorian Steward," she said, matching his sincerity. "Faramir, I am so proud of… of everything. We did it."

He glanced at all the noble men and women around them, then knelt before her and took her hands.

"Tíniel, you are wonderful. You really are."

"Alright now –"

"No, let me finish," he said, and smiled. "You are the only family I have left, and today I am losing you to some ranger from the North."

"You aren't losing me," she said. "You're keeping me, if anything, for I'm not going back to Khand."

He grinned. "You're not going to let me be serious, are you?"

She shook her head and grinned. "I don't want to cry today."

"Very well. For your sake then." He squeezed her hands. "I'll only say that I love you very, very, very much. And I can't think of anyone that I wish more happiness for."

Despite herself, Tíniel felt a prickling behind her eyes. "I love you too," she said. "Thank you. Thank you for everything."

Faramir sniffed. "You're right. We should stop being nice."

"Told you so. Why am I _always_ right?"

He stood up and moved back to his place beside her. They were positioned before the doors of the Great Hall, where Aragorn and his party would stop and greet them. The road, from the outer gate all the way to the Great Hall, was lined with people.

At the very top, lining the courtyard that led to Tíniel and Faramir, stood the most powerful people in Middle-earth. Galadriel and Celeborn were there, along with Gandalf, Akhund, Elrond and his sons, Legolas, Gimli and the hobbits, Anita and Beregond, Tcharum and a handful of the Maruvikh, Lothíriel and Imrahil, and some of the knights of Dol Amroth, Éowyn, Éomer and a few of his Riders, the lords of Gondor who had rallied to Minas Tirith, as well as a few Elves, Men and Dwarves from the North that Tíniel had welcomed to the city earlier that week.

The kings from the South were there too, along with parties from Rhûn and Khand. Some looked nervous, out of place in the unfamiliar surroundings. Most looked about warily, and some of them studied her, taking in her dull red tunic, the polished blades that hung at her side, the _vadi_ that covered her tightly braided hair, and the two glinting _hamarakhi_ that hung around her neck.

Tíniel paid them no heed, her eyes fixed instead on the road on which Aragorn would soon emerge. The cheers from below were growing louder and louder, signalling the approach of the king and his Grey Company. Drawing in a steadying breath, she took her stick from the back of the chair.

"Faramir, your arm please?"

"Are you sure?" he asked.

She nodded. "I may be a cripple, but I am going to be standing when he comes," she replied with determination.

Obligingly, Faramir offered his hand, and she used it and the stick to push herself upright. A guard removed the chair and she stood, leaning on the stick, her eyes still fixed on the road.

Moments later, he appeared. The people began clapping and cheering instantly, the noise deafening. Tíniel remained silent, her eyes fixed on Aragorn.

He was walking at the head of the company of grey-cloaked rangers. He wore chainmail, and a dark blue tunic on which was embossed seven stars above a white tree. His reforged sword was buckled to his waist. Tíniel's breath caught in her throat; he looked grave, stern, kingly.

From a distance, she saw his eyes soften fractionally when he saw her standing beside Faramir. She felt her heart swell, and she wondered if it was possible for her to be happier.

When they reached the white tree, the Company stopped. Aragorn stepped forward, underneath its branches, and the clapping and cheering suddenly ceased. He looked up at it with wonder and sadness, and reached out to brush his fingertips against its ashy trunk.

It seemed that the city was holding its breath as he withdrew his hand and stepped back. They began walking again, and the next time they stopped, it was before Faramir and Tíniel. He gave a smile so small that no one but them would have been able to see it. Faramir's lips twitched in response, and he cleared his throat.

"Who are you to challenge the authority of the Steward?" he said, his voice loud enough to carry across the packed courtyard. He lifted his chin slightly, and suddenly he didn't look like her wayward, foul-mouthed, joking adopted brother at all, but a formidable man and a true leader.

"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dunedain, heir of Isildur Elendil's son of Gondor, called Dúnadan, bearer of the sword that was broken and has been reforged, heir to the thrones of Gondor and Arnor, and rightful king of the Reunited Kingdom."

"And why have you come?" Faramir asked. The hairs on Tíniel's forearms stood on end.

"I have come," Aragorn said solemnly, "to reclaim my throne."

"For many years, my fathers and I have kept it," Faramir said. "For many years, we have protected and ruled this realm. But now, Aragorn son of Arathorn, I rejoice to see the throne no longer empty. Let a new age begin in Gondor and Arnor and the rest of Middle-earth! Let the New World be born! The reign of the Ruling Stewards is over, and the King has returned!"

The courtyard erupted into cheers again, and Aragorn smiled. "I accept the burden of the throne," he said, "but not without help. Tchakhura Khondyë of the Maruvikh of Khand, I ask for your hand in marriage and that you become my queen, and the ruling Queen of Gondor, Arnor and the Southlands."

"And I accept," she said immediately – perhaps too quickly – unable to stop herself from grinning. She heard Tcharum whoop wildly, and she laughed and took Aragorn's proffered arm. He helped her walk up the steps until they stood just before the door.

"You look so beautiful," he whispered in her ear.

"So do you."

"Men aren't supposed to look beautiful. They're supposed to be handsome."

"Well that's a shame, because you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

They turned and faced the crowd again, and Gandalf and Akhund, dressed in robes of white and blue, approached.

"I have waited for this day for centuries," Gandalf said quietly, holding up a crown of silver.

"As have I," Akhund said, doing the same thing. "An early retirement sounds good, does it not, Gandalf?"

"We have waited for it long enough," the other wizard said, and they both held up the crowns to show to the crowd. Gandalf lowered his onto Aragorn's head. "Long live the King!" he cried.

"Long live the King!" echoed through the crowd, and then, like a ripple, through the city. It was deafening, awe-inspiring, and it made Tíniel's heart squeeze in her chest. Akhund slowly lowered his crown onto her head, and smiled warmly at her.

" _Khuma Khondyë!_ " he shouted, turning back to face the crowd. There was a beat of confused silence, but then Tcharum's deep voice echoed across the courtyard.

" _Khuma Khondyë!"_ he bellowed. Then Jekilah and Magakh took up the cry, and suddenly it spread through the city just like before. The sound was thunderous. Aragorn and Tíniel exchanged a glance, and then he took her hand.

"One more thing," Akhund said, and produced a medallion on a silver chain.

"A _hamarakhi?_ " Tíniel asked.

"The King of the Southlands should have one, don't you think?" Akhund replied. Aragorn bowed his head, and the wizard draped it carefully around his neck. "It is a heavy burden to bear," he said, "but you will bear it together."

"Free people of Middle-earth," Gandalf cried. "King Aragorn Telcontar and Queen Tchakhura Rómentári!"

Every man, woman, Elf, Dwarf and hobbit in the city knelt before them, and Tíniel and Aragorn stood hand in hand before them.

"Can you believe it?" he whispered as they looked down over the hundreds and thousands of bowed heads.

"It's the new world," she replied. "We're going to rebuild it."

"Together," he said. "Always together."

They were married on the steps of the Great Hall. Merry and Pippin whistled loudly when they kissed, and Tíniel didn't think her heart could grow any fuller. When the ceremony was over, music struck up, food was produced, and the crowds began to disperse for the celebrations. Tcharum was the first to come up and congratulate them.

"I am happy," he said, grinning broadly and kissing Aragorn on both cheeks. "I am happy!"

"Me too," Aragorn laughed. "A pity we didn't have a Khandi styled wedding."

"A pity?" Tíniel raised an eyebrow. "Tradition would dictate that you have to fight my family for me, and that I fight yours to take you. So if you fancy crossing blades with Tcharum here…"

"I am ready," Tcharum shrugged, and Aragorn's eyes widened fractionally.

"Perhaps another day," he said. Tíniel and Tcharum both laughed, but then Aragorn's attention was taken by Halbarad.

"I love you to the stars and back, Tcharum," Tíniel said in Khandi, turning to him.

"And I you. Take care of your man."

"You know I will."

He embraced her, and she held him tightly, burying her face in his shoulder.

"I will miss you," he whispered.

"I'll miss you too," she replied. "But this time, we are both doing what we are meant to do. This time, we'll be happy."

"The trade routes will be open. We'll build one of those roads that the Northmen like so much. I'll see you again."

There was a small disturbance behind them, and Mahaya and Harûk stumbled to the front of the milling crowd. Tíniel laughed, but Tcharum took one look at Harûk and shook his head.

"That's my cue," he said to Tíniel. "I'm not dealing with _him_ today. I'll see you later!"

"Good afternoon!" Mahaya said as Tcharum disappeared into the milling mass of people.

" _Great_ afternoon," Harûk agreed, leaning heavily to one side. Tíniel blinked.

"Are you alright, Harûk?"

"Oh, he's drunk," Mahaya said with little concern. "He decided you getting married was an event worth celebrating. Although, anyone anywhere could get married and Harûk would celebrate."

"But Tíniel," Harûk slurred, "is _special._ She is like a _daughter_ to me."

Tíniel wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Well, _that's_ not true."

"I'm going to put him to bed," Mahaya said. "I just thought we should come up and say hello before he started punching people."

"You know," Harûk said earnestly, "I'm sad a lot. But today is happy."

"Yes, it is," she said, patting him on the shoulder. She looked at Mahaya. "Any word of Remuil?"

"None," he said. "I'm starting to think the man might be dead after all."

Tíniel hesitated. She knew he was alive; she'd seen him in Minas Tirith, watching her from the walls. But he'd been avoiding her, and obviously everyone else that knew him. Was it her place to say anything if he didn't want to be found?

"Don't give up hope yet," she said. "Where will I find you, if I hear anything?"

"Somewhere in the second circle, where the rest of the brown people are," Mahaya grinned. "And wherever there's the most rum."

"Right," she laughed. "Well, take care of Harûk."

"I don't need… I don't need to take care of Harûk," Harûk said indignantly.

"Tíniel," Mahaya said, smiling lopsidedly. "I might not be very good at being emotional, but... I'm happy for you. I really am. If anyone deserves a happy ending, it's you."

"Thank you, Mahaya," she said earnestly. "You know, you two will always be the first friends I made outside of Khand."

"And the quality never improved," he said with another grin.

They disappeared into the crowd, and Tíniel tugged on Aragorn's elbow.

"What is it?" he said.

"It's getting painful. I need to sit down."

He nodded at someone, and her chair was brought forward. He lowered her into it.

"Who would have thought the first queen of the New Kingdom would be in a wheelchair," she said. Aragorn smiled and adjusted her _vadi_.

"Your chair is the least noticeable thing about you," he said. "Now, look important. We have another few hours yet to go."

So they turned back to be congratulated by someone else.

* * *

 **Writing these kinds of chapters is weirdly fun. They have literally no plot, but they're so _nice_ _!_ Thank you for reading, and keep an eye out for the next chapter – the last real chapter – which will be along in no time. **

**I also want to remind you all to follow my author page so that you can get notified when the next story goes up, which will be up SUPER SOON. It's called _A Reckoning in Esgorath_ , and it'll be a bit different thematically and style-wise (consider yourselves my guinea pigs, and these stories my literary experiments). But it will still exist within the LotR universe, and I'm so excited to share it with you! Check my profile for more info.**

 **And of course, don't forget to follow, favourite and review this story for the tiny bit of life it has left in it. Catchya.**

 **S**


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